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PostPosted: 28 Mar 2014, 13:58 
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after the garden party . . . the garden

—Ruth Yarrow (Wind Chimes #7, Winter 1983)


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PostPosted: 11 Jun 2014, 16:47 
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A selection of stuff from Aoi Kotsuhiroi (among others):

http://www.aoikotsuhiroi.com/Letters.html


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PostPosted: 16 Jun 2014, 21:59 
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Location: Portland
Was in a weird sort of emotional rut this winter. The snow seems to really affect me. Anyways, this lesser appreciated Sylvia Plath poem "The Ghost's Leavetaking" was one I returned to a lot over the winter.

Enter the chilly no-man's land of about
Five o'clock in the morning, the no-color void
Where the waking head rubbishes out the draggled lot
Of sulfurous dreamscapes and obscure lunar conundrums
Which seemed, when dreamed, to mean so profoundly much,

Gets ready to face the ready-made creation
Of chairs and bureaus and sleep-twisted sheets.
This is the kingdom of the fading apparition,
The oracular ghost who dwindles on pin-legs
To a knot of laundry, with a classic bunch of sheets

Upraised, as a hand, emblematic of farewell.
At this joint between two worlds and two entirely
Incompatible modes of time, the raw material
Of our meat-and-potato thoughts assumes the nimbus
Of ambrosial revelation. And so departs.

Chair and bureau are the hieroglyphs
Of some godly utterance wakened heads ignore:
So these posed sheets, before they thin to nothing,
Speak in sign language of a lost otherworld,
A world we lose by merely waking up.

Trailing its telltale tatters only at the outermost
Fringe of mundane vision, this ghost goes
Hand aloft, goodbye, goodbye, not down
Into the rocky gizzard of the earth,
But toward a region where our thick atmosphere

Diminishes, and God knows what is there.
A point of exclamation marks that sky
In ringing orange like a stellar carrot.
Its round period, displaced and green,
Suspends beside it the first point, the starting

Point of Eden, next the new moon's curve.
Go, ghost of our mother and father, ghost of us,
And ghost of our dreams' children, in those sheets
Which signify our origin and end,
To the cloud-cuckoo land of color wheels

And pristine alphabets and cows that moo
And moo as they jump over moons as new
As that crisp cusp toward which you voyage now.
Hail and farewell. Hello, goodbye. O keeper
Of the profane grail, the dreaming skull.


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PostPosted: 18 Jun 2014, 02:29 
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Posts: 338
Snake-worship is the creed I hold
And shall do till I get too old.
The saucy serpent symbolizes
A hundred Freudian surprises;
With mine, I do the Indian trick
Though it's become a shade too thick
To stand up like an actual rope—
I leave that to the Band of Hope.

Nor can I manage kundalini
And play on it like Paganini...
Mere beanstalk with a tower atop
I'm just like Jack, I cannot stop,
Hand over curious hand I climb
Until I hear the belfries chime
And some companionable she
Asks is there honey still for tea?

Lawrence Durrell

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PostPosted: 03 Jul 2014, 06:55 
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dimensional rifts
a tearing in space and time,
calm as i enter.


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PostPosted: 06 Jul 2014, 08:13 
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Posts: 90
Just now I find myself where I most of all
want to be.
Just now the view is the one I most want to look at.
She who is sleeping in my bed is the one I most want to
sleep with.
This open-faced sandwich tastes better than all other sandwiches.
The grass on our side of the fence is greener than on
the other side.
This summer is more beautiful than all the summers of childhood.
The illnesses I suffer from suit me better than
all other illnesses.
My loss is greater than any other I have encountered.
I would not trade my face in the mirror for all
the mirrors in the world.

claes andersson


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PostPosted: 15 Jul 2014, 19:38 
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from a book of sappho poems translated from papyrus fragments.

how do you relay, to your contemporary audience, the drama in the act of reading a crumbling piece of pressed fiber paper nearly black from edge-to-edge with columns of greek without margin, punctuation, word division, or lineation?


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PostPosted: 15 Jul 2014, 19:49 
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ahh, sappho is one of my favourites. in part because comparison of different translators tells perhaps the most of any poet about the translator's mind, something that's always a fun study. you can make wonderful palimpsests from the various takes... on a similar topic, i have very set notions about which remnants are 'authentic' heraclitus and which were put in his mouth. of course, no way of knowing for certain--but still, i'm convinced i'm right!

lately, have been delighting in this one hopkins poem:

GLORY be to God for dappled things—
For skies of couple-colour as a brinded cow;
For rose-moles all in stipple upon trout that swim;
Fresh-firecoal chestnut-falls; finches’ wings;
Landscape plotted and pieced—fold, fallow, and plough;
And áll trádes, their gear and tackle and trim.

All things counter, original, spare, strange;
Whatever is fickle, freckled (who knows how?)
With swift, slow; sweet, sour; adazzle, dim;
He fathers-forth whose beauty is past change:
Praise him.

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PostPosted: 18 Jul 2014, 18:09 
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Location: Portland
I'm interested in if any of you, since we are both interested in poetry and find joy in expressing ourselves, write your own poetry. If so, I'd love to hear it. From what I've gathered this forum is also aiming to create a closer community, and I imagine one's own poetry could be a somewhat personal thing to share. Lastly, I've been attempting to write my own poetry lately, but considering thus far I only have a high school degree, I'm not really sure where to start. I've written a few things, I just don't know if they constitute as poetry. They sound more like angsty rants. Is there any literature online or in print I should read through to get a better sense of how I should formulate these feelings I want to express? I don't want a guide, as that defeats the purpose to me. I'd like it to be my own, but to also be recognizable as something more poetic and less of a stream of thoughts. Is my best bet just to continue reading others poetry and perhaps along the way discover my own voice?


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PostPosted: 18 Jul 2014, 19:20 
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Senpai wrote:
Is my best bet just to continue reading others poetry and perhaps along the way discover my own voice?

Yes.


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PostPosted: 18 Jul 2014, 19:57 
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phpBB [video]


he came up in conversation recently when looking into more of the historical side of early 1900s russian sound poetry and verses without words. i had read a book of his on the subject some years back, which was unfortunately not available in english. more recently found an excerpt of it that someone had very thoughtfully translated, though the subject sort of deals with things which do not easily lend themselves to poetic translation, if any at all.

found here.

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which pyre in my library crimson


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PostPosted: 19 Jul 2014, 20:29 
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recalls the stuttering in roof. or meredith monk's ululations. never seen it done in poetry, though, interesting.

senpai, you should pick up a copy of letters to a young poet, by rilke. "Nobody can advise you and help you. Nobody. There is only one way—Go into yourself." iirc also explicitly advises the fellow to stop writing poetry because if he's not so sure that he needs to write that even rilke telling him not to won't stop him, it's a waste of his time.

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PostPosted: 20 Jul 2014, 03:03 
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Thanks MJRH, will have to keep my eyes out for that. We'll see if he can disenchant me with the idea.


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PostPosted: 23 Jul 2014, 04:14 
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i think one should write stuff that pleases themselves. i actually dont think self-expression (or communication) is the ultimate aim of poetry...which in my mind is to create something that has life, separate from the self of the poet. i find the poems i dislike are usually the ones that are too much written for an audience, and tend to be overdramatic and tiring to read, or worse, all about being clever or trying to prove something...

this of course might just be my more conservative taste speaking. for the past six or so months ive read almost exclusively wallace stevens, who is the opposite of overdramatic and having the self (at least, bluntly) present in the poem...if i had to make a designer analogy he's kinda like dries...romantic, seemingly light and bourgeois, but with a lot of substance. he's really amazingly consistent, i'm surprised by how many great 'deep cuts' there are. sunday morning (theone he's known by) had a lot of pretty phrases, but was one of his middling works imo.


when the elephant's ear in the park
shrivelled in frost,
and the leaves on the paths
ran like rats,
your lamp light fell
on shining pillows,
of sea-shades and sky-shades
like umbrellas in Java.


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PostPosted: 23 Jul 2014, 22:40 
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Quote:
i actually dont think self-expression (or communication) is the ultimate aim of poetry...which in my mind is to create something that has life, separate from the self of the poet.


then again maybe it's just that as soon as something becomes a cliche, it loses all meaning. (perhaps vice versa.) at some point in the late 17/early 1800s, no doubt self-expression was an immensely powerful and fertile idea.

i've been going through lawrence durrell's entire works for at least the third time. this is from nunquam, in the usual vein of conversation hereabouts...

Nothing is hidden, there are no secrets. But you can tell people only what they already know. That is the infuriating thing. And while they may know it, they may not be conscious that they know. Hence the jolt provided by the dry-cell batteries of art. In such a thing all that has been done is to create an area of self-recognition. The reflected light plays upon the observer, he sees, becomes a see-er, a self-seer.

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PostPosted: 01 Sep 2014, 08:33 
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There is a Zone whose even Years
No Solstice interrupt —
Whose Sun constructs perpetual Noon
Whose perfect Seasons wait —

Whose Summer set in Summer, till
The Centuries of June
And Centuries of August cease
And Consciousness — is Noon.


emily dickinson


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PostPosted: 13 Sep 2014, 01:53 
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Image

encountered in crawford's waves, 1968.


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PostPosted: 13 Sep 2014, 06:02 
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susan howe, souls of the labadie tract

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which pyre shall the moon ignite each hour
which pyre in my library crimson


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PostPosted: 02 Nov 2014, 20:47 
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I in their delicate fellowship was one—
Drew the bolt of Nature’s secrecies.
I knew all the swift importings
On the wilful face of skies;
I knew how the clouds arise
Spumèd of the wild sea-snortings;
All that’s born or dies
Rose and drooped with; made them shapers
Of mine own moods, or wailful or divine;
With them joyed and was bereaven.
I was heavy with the even,
When she lit her glimmering tapers
Round the day’s dead sanctities.
I laughed in the morning’s eyes.
I triumphed and I saddened with all weather,
Heaven and I wept together,
And its sweet tears were salt with mortal mine;
Against the red throb of its sunset-heart
I laid my own to beat,
And share commingling heat;
But not by that, by that, was eased my human smart.
In vain my tears were wet on Heaven’s grey cheek.
For ah! we know not what each other says,
These things and I; in sound I speak—
Their sound is but their stir, they speak by silences.

excerpt. francis thompson

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PostPosted: 03 Nov 2014, 23:03 
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Location: Canada
5
When two identical mirrorsface each other
their cycle of self-reflection recedesforever
into an infinite exchange of self-absorption.
Each mirror
infectsitself
at every scale
with the virus of its own image.
Each mirror
devoursitself
at every point
with the abyss of its own dream.
When we gaze upon a fractal,we must peer
at a one-way mirror, unaware of the other
mirror,standing somewhere far behind us.

Crystallography by Christian Bok


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