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Illustrations by Drea Cofield.
As a glimpse into that time, these lost portraits are invaluableand often deeply moving.
In 1958, a budgie from Newcastle, U.K. named Sparkie received an award for having the largest vocabulary of any known bird.
Not that there is an easy collusion between politics and writing. Nor an easy translatability between texts and languages.
Kharms’s obliquely allegorical dark comedies are at once mystical and mythic, Daoist and Dadaist, daring and deranging, surrealist and satiric, metaphysical and metafictional.
Surani examines the poetics of the military (whose protocols require that each violent mission receive a moniker, whose metaphorical connotations must convey both a dignity of purpose and an element of secrecy).
Raworth’s movement through time is toward ever-greater compressiona restless homing-in on a perceived center he has described as “pure politics.”
I remember he was tall and bald and had an intensely serious expression on his face while he talked in a bobbing, weaving manner about Freud and other things.
If you bed someone and then learn more about them, is the truth a replacement for the first impressions, or were the impressions a replacement for the truth?
This is a double portrait in counterpoint tongues, musings, mutterings, riffs, and rants, reflections and peregrinations through lexical domains.
Morris moves with loving attention and unflinching critical detail between the signature language of other artistsvariously acoustic, filmic, documentary, poeticand her own distinct idiom.
Tonya Foster tunes the language and brings out the I, the you, the us (the most underestimated words in my opinion in English) to spin the conjoined through pronominal association, to pulse, gather, and scatter. The swarm is a sustaining force.
It is this struggle, what he calls his “solitary-solidary struggle,” deeply committed, deeply political, yet situated outside any ideological system, a struggle toward the construction of an ethics able to equal the complexities of our world, that has been his compass. The rest is poetry.
You and Me Are Not Friends, OK? nitty-gritties like a choice fractalization of Millie Jackson.
Barbara Guest (1920 2006) remains a Guest, singularly and generouslyher geist still edging up to and through you, like, right now.
What happens when a common human feeling, say love, envy, or the desire to organize your kitchen utensil drawer, gets inserted into the body of an ant?
The poems seem to come from a man with a taste for bywaystheosophy, alchemy, fundamentalist theology in Kansasin the syntax of there is and it is present, as brought before the speculative mind, and wondered about.
Édgar J. Ulloa Lujáns début manuscript gives me that prickly feeling.
Do you want the door closed?
Note, amid the difference, the continual suggestions of connectivity
Near the end of the volume, her History of Art is one of the most beautiful poems I have read.
But the sighting, once it occurs, will not soon be forgotten.
The poem drops the user into a literal field of signs.
It might be about that weird way that making art is the only steady thing that perseveres in our lives, although that is an interpretation I am implying on top of this.
You cant hear Ted without wanting to hear more Ted.
slipping like an old machine between anguish and English
It is, in the artists own words, a collaged swan song to the old ways.