Needless to say I didn't aim to leave my blog unattended for quite so long, but a situation beyond my control arose. Hopefully I'll be back to regular updates before too long, before the weeds completely take over around here!
Since no one has guessed who the "rhetorical serpent" comment was about, it was aimed at C. K. Williams. I've been reading his work for a project and realized (through critical commentary) that he actually uses a double pentameter line quite often. I've been reading a lot of poets who I always thought of as "free verse" but I see more and more formal elements in their work as I become more aware and more familiar. "No verse is free. . ." as the saying goes.
Hope your summer is less eventful than mine.
Best,
Amy
another hint about the rhetorical serpent
he went there, he says, because he thought in that mute placid
domain of the trees,
he might find beyond the predations of animals and men something
like the good.
. . .
but No, he says, No, the trees and their seeds and flowers are at war
just as we are,
every inch of soil is a battleground, each species of tree relentlessly
seeks its own ends;
domain of the trees,
he might find beyond the predations of animals and men something
like the good.
. . .
but No, he says, No, the trees and their seeds and flowers are at war
just as we are,
every inch of soil is a battleground, each species of tree relentlessly
seeks its own ends;
Quote of the Day
Ok, so it's more like the quote from a few decades ago. (1984 to be exact)
"If rhetoric is a serpent, then here it becomes a kind of python, steadily wrapping its coils around the reader."
The quote is from a review in Field by David Young. Any guesses as to who wrote the poems he's talking about?
"If rhetoric is a serpent, then here it becomes a kind of python, steadily wrapping its coils around the reader."
The quote is from a review in Field by David Young. Any guesses as to who wrote the poems he's talking about?
Palabras for the day
Palabras me gustan hoy:
pomegranate & granada
marsopa & porpoise
And the one that makes me a little curious since "transendence" is usually a good thing for poetry and usually words that look quite a bit alike have the same root in the Latin:
trascendente & portentous (!)
I'm mixing up the languages, but it's a learning method. Espero. I'm trying. Es la verdad. Lo siento.
pomegranate & granada
marsopa & porpoise
And the one that makes me a little curious since "transendence" is usually a good thing for poetry and usually words that look quite a bit alike have the same root in the Latin:
trascendente & portentous (!)
I'm mixing up the languages, but it's a learning method. Espero. I'm trying. Es la verdad. Lo siento.
The Robot as a Sympathetic Character
Something a little different for me:
The Robot as a Sympathetic Character
Model 47
Perfunctory. Precision. Open, Shut,
Smile. Carry the comestibles to the ladies’ cars,
Tip, tip the hat. Rain, sleet, sun the same
to me. The manager’s daughter mimicked
me for months. For her the hospital. Open,
Shut, Open, Shut. Smiling,
Tip tip the hat. For me, no legs and
the rats’ endless clambering. Above
the skies fill and empty with clouds.
Tip, tip the hat.
Model 763
I’m one of a thousand—
hundred thousand possibly—
who bothers to count any more?
Trash to curb, toddler to kiddie care
mistress to massage, coffee delivered,
check paid. There’s no need for a
housewife, hussy, madam, Mrs.
I do it all, oh yes, technically
I can do it all. I’m programmed
to please, never tired, rejuvenated
with the blink of your eye—headache
free. Just give me your hand
and you’ll see, though I’m secondhand,
originally custom delivered—it’s not
the work, the work has never been
a problem—only the nights he woke
gasping, hearing her blood pulse
in his dreams then waking to his head
pillowed on my hollow heartless breast.
Model 8789
Yes, I know most everything—history,
Genocide, the fragile music of a conch,
how to tabulate the six hundred-thousandth
place of pi, which characters demand the most
strokes from an ermine hair brush, the hour
of the last monk’s death, the final flight path
of the monarch migration to what was once
Mexico. There is little else to mark now,
beyond what passes—this cased circuitry
impervious to the skies and rivers. The last
live birth, I held in my hands. I washed
the boy in the mountain steam and cradled
it against a chest buffered by a blanket
stitched of field mouse fur. I fed him,
dropper by dropper, mouthful by mouthful
from an ancient cache, but he grew wild
as the geese that still impossibly fly, wild
as the stunted trees marring the plains.
He screamed with the voice of the mountain lion
as the pelts fell tattered from my immaculately formed
limbs. The world’s words, Latin, German, French,
Greek—its entire knowledge—incomprehensible
to the child who would only hear the incessant roar
of the wasting wind, and the grey waves' lash upon
the stony shore. Tiburon, I warned, as his blood
blossomed in the bay, shark, I shouted as he
slashed his feet on the slivered remains of
shell and vertebrae, under the great arch
of a humpback’s ribs. I could only repeat
the worthless words, as the creature rose
from the waters, as frail flesh ended itself in the sea
The Robot as a Sympathetic Character
Model 47
Perfunctory. Precision. Open, Shut,
Smile. Carry the comestibles to the ladies’ cars,
Tip, tip the hat. Rain, sleet, sun the same
to me. The manager’s daughter mimicked
me for months. For her the hospital. Open,
Shut, Open, Shut. Smiling,
Tip tip the hat. For me, no legs and
the rats’ endless clambering. Above
the skies fill and empty with clouds.
Tip, tip the hat.
Model 763
I’m one of a thousand—
hundred thousand possibly—
who bothers to count any more?
Trash to curb, toddler to kiddie care
mistress to massage, coffee delivered,
check paid. There’s no need for a
housewife, hussy, madam, Mrs.
I do it all, oh yes, technically
I can do it all. I’m programmed
to please, never tired, rejuvenated
with the blink of your eye—headache
free. Just give me your hand
and you’ll see, though I’m secondhand,
originally custom delivered—it’s not
the work, the work has never been
a problem—only the nights he woke
gasping, hearing her blood pulse
in his dreams then waking to his head
pillowed on my hollow heartless breast.
Model 8789
Yes, I know most everything—history,
Genocide, the fragile music of a conch,
how to tabulate the six hundred-thousandth
place of pi, which characters demand the most
strokes from an ermine hair brush, the hour
of the last monk’s death, the final flight path
of the monarch migration to what was once
Mexico. There is little else to mark now,
beyond what passes—this cased circuitry
impervious to the skies and rivers. The last
live birth, I held in my hands. I washed
the boy in the mountain steam and cradled
it against a chest buffered by a blanket
stitched of field mouse fur. I fed him,
dropper by dropper, mouthful by mouthful
from an ancient cache, but he grew wild
as the geese that still impossibly fly, wild
as the stunted trees marring the plains.
He screamed with the voice of the mountain lion
as the pelts fell tattered from my immaculately formed
limbs. The world’s words, Latin, German, French,
Greek—its entire knowledge—incomprehensible
to the child who would only hear the incessant roar
of the wasting wind, and the grey waves' lash upon
the stony shore. Tiburon, I warned, as his blood
blossomed in the bay, shark, I shouted as he
slashed his feet on the slivered remains of
shell and vertebrae, under the great arch
of a humpback’s ribs. I could only repeat
the worthless words, as the creature rose
from the waters, as frail flesh ended itself in the sea
123.5
From Suzanne:
A new book meme circulating around the sphere is going by the name “123.5,”
and its rules are these:
1. Grab the nearest book.
2. Open the book to page 123. Find the fifth sentence.
4. Post the text of the sentence in your journal along with these instructions.
5. Don’t search around and look for the “coolest” book you can find. Do what’s actually next to you.
A new book meme circulating around the sphere is going by the name “123.5,”
and its rules are these:
1. Grab the nearest book.
2. Open the book to page 123. Find the fifth sentence.
4. Post the text of the sentence in your journal along with these instructions.
5. Don’t search around and look for the “coolest” book you can find. Do what’s actually next to you.
How could man carving the first wheel
see the later labyrinths
of steel and brass wheels moving interlocked
in a spun fabric of wheels?
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)
