Criticism By Alan Gilbert

"When I was a grad student at SUNY Buffalo in the mid-’90s, the comp lit students thought they were the cool kids, the Poetics Program poets thought they were the cooler kids, but..."

CONTINUED @ Harriet - The Poetry Foundation

"What is Safe?"

Words and Music by Metta Sáma

EXCERPTS:

“King’s book is not quiet; hers is an aesthetics of sound fractured, fragmented, compounded, mixed, remixed, sampled, jointed, yes, even anointed. (Check out the cover of this book, it’s sparseness of image, this blaringly red background, these glaringly gray figures, mouths open. Caught mid-pounce (whose in danger? (you must be asking yourself!)).”


“Connecting the body to art (as that which comes from the body, which lives in the body, which defends the body, which deceives the body, which destroys the body, which provides passageways to forgive the body, to recreate the body) art to philosophy (what is the body, what are its limitations, its excesses, can we discard the body) philosophy to politics (who owns the body, who has rights to the body, who deserves (health) care for the body) carries us (noisily) through these (full-bodied) explorations.”


“What is safe?”

CONTINUED @ Her Circle:  A Magazine of Women’s Arts and Activism

What She Says: The All Women Writers Issue

 

SENTENTIA 4

What She Says: The All Women Writers Issue
164 pages
edited by Paula Bomer, Amy King and Jen Michalski
$10 (+$2 shipping)



Including work by:

Betsy Boyd, Ana Bozicevic, Mikita Brottman, Megan Calhoun, Ching-in Chen, Andrea DeAngelis, Kathy Flann, Sherrie Flick, Heather Fowler, Ana Garcia Begua, Rachel Eliza Griffiths, Jen Grow, Toshiya Kamei, Elise Levine, Sara Lippmann, Khadijah Queen, Treasure Shields Redmond, Metta Sama, Ellen McGrath Smith, Sara Jane Stoner, Meg Tuite, Carolyn Zaikowski, Darija Zilic

108 Beads per Rosary + 108 Poets per REVOLUTIONESQUE

Harriet @ Poetry Foundation remarks, “you’ve got to check out Esque Mag Issue 3 … It’s beautiful.”

 

Announcing Esque (click!)

For the third issue of esque, REVOLUTIONESQUE, we asked you to tell us about the revolution. We didn’t define what we mean by that. Whether it lives in your home, in the financial district, or the district of your heart, you defined your revolution and told us what it is. 
 Here are y/our findings.

108 poets talk about the revolution:

Alex Dimitrov, Alex Rieser, Amanda Deutch, Amber West, Amish Trivedi, Amy Lawless, Anja Mutic, Anne Fisher-Wirth, Annie Finch, Becca Klaver, Betsy Wheeler, Bonnie MacAllister, Brad Liening, Brenda Iijima, Brian Howe, Cara Benson, Ching-In Chen, Chris Martin, Chris Pusateri, Christina Davis, Claudia Serea, Cynthia Arrieu-King, Dale Smith, Dan Hoy, Dana Teen Lomax, Danniel Schoonebeek, David Baratier, David Brazil, David Buuck, Diane di Prima, Donna Fleischer, Dot Devota, Dustin Luke Nelson, E.C. Messer, Elise Ficarra, Elizabeth Treadwell, Emily Kendal Frey, Erin Lyndal Martin, Evie Shockley, Filip Marinovich, Franklin Bruno, Gloria Frym, Hank Lazer, Harold Abramowitz, Hugh Behm-Steinberg, J/J Hastain, Jan Clausen, Jan Heller Levi, Jared White, Jeffrey Grunthaner, Jennifer Karmin, Jennifer Mackenzie, Jessica Reed, Jocelyn Lieu, John Ashbery, John Colburn, Jon Cotner, Joshua Ware, Kate Schapira, Kathleen Ossip, Kimberly Alidio, Kristin Prevallet, Krystal Languell, Larry Sawyer, Lars Palm, Laura Carter, Laura Hinton, Lauren DeGaine, Laynie Browne, Liesel Tarquini, Lily Brown, Lisa Samuels, M. G. Stephens, Magus Magnus, Maryam Alikhani, Matt Clifford, Maya Pindyck, Meena Alexander, Megan Volpert, Michelle Detorie, Mike Palmer, Nicholas DeBoer, Nikki Wallschlaeger, Noelle Kocot, Ossian Foley, Paige Taggart, Patricia Spears Jones, Paul Cunningham, Paula Cisewski, Peter Ciccariello, Phillip Griffith, Piotr Gwiazda, Rachel Eliza Griffiths, Rachel Levitsky, Ray Gonzalez, Richard Loranger, Ricky Ray, Rita Stein, Rob MacDonald, Sara Jane Stoner, Sharon Mesmer, Sophie Podolski trans. Paul Legault, Stephanie Gray, Thom Donovan, Todd Colby, Tony Mancus, Vincent Katz, Zvonko Karanovic trans. Ana Bozicevic

With a special Naropa section featuring:

Allan Andre, Angela Stubbs, Ariella Ruth, Jessica Hagemann, Lauren Artiles, Lindsay Miller, Matthew Wedlock, Meryl DePasquale

Please share widely, with gratitude,

Amy King & Ana Bozicevic
http://www.esquemag.org/

Apostrophe, Odes, Ekphrasis, Oh My!

 

*Click for Poetry Workshop Info*

The Rooster Moans:  Poetry Cooperative
Dates: July 8 – August 4, 2012

With Amy King

For as long as we can remember, poets have addressed the sun and moon, distant lovers and heroes, while also separately singing odes to the gods. The Surrealist painter Leonora Carrington once said, “We learn about the soul, and we have to listen to the soul.”  Just as some poets use music for inspiration, ekphrasis is not simply a description of an art work, but influenced by the art work and, sometimes, the artist’s life. Carrington’s own paintings evidence her own efforts towards querying the world she inhabited beyond the limits of perception; her life also reveals many lively, unconventional turns that inspire and provide unexpected permissions, something poets often require — consciously or not.


In the course of this workshop, we will look at a the work and lives of a variety of artists, as well as poets, and consider how ekphrasis can extend beyond mere description of the visual arts but may also be combined with address (apostrophe) or incorporate the ode as a means to reflect appreciation, and content from, an artist’s work.

"Amy King’s poems seem to encompass all that we think of as the 'natural' world ..."

                                                                                                               --John Ashbery 

Amy King writes:  A review once described my work as “moving between the registers of the fabulous and the mundane;” as I write, however, I don’t purposely aim to interlace tonalities – I amass, pile, and occasionally flatten as I beat my matter into text. 

Poetry needs no one new party to lead it into the fraying future; if we’re to save the world, let’s raise a revolution as shapeshifters. In other words, this book is about metamorphosis through a radical cherishing. I am ravished by the world, aren’t you?

Please support Small Press Distribution - here.  

~~~~

"Rarely have the nude and the cooked been so neatly joined” as in Amy King’s I Want to Make You Safe. If “us,” “herons,” and “dust” rhyme,  then these poems rhyme. If that makes you feel safe, it shouldn’t. Amy King’s poems are exuberant, strange, and a bit grotesque. They’re spring-loaded and ready for trouble. Categories collapse. These are the new “thunderstorms with Barbie roots."
                                                                                                   — Rae Armantrout 
 

Vulnerability, fragility, and anxiety are all flushed out into the open here and addressed with such strong sound and rhythm that we recognize a resilient, defiant strength within them. King puts relentless pressure on forces seemingly beyond our reach and, in bringing them closer, exposes their own vulnerable centers. This is a poetry equally committed to language as a tool with social obligations and language as an art material obligated to reveal its own beauty. King’s language does both magnificently. 
                                                                                                    — Cole Swensen

Amy King’s poems seem to encompass all that we think of as the “natural” world, i.e. sex, sun, love, rotting, hatching, dreaming, especially in the wonderful long poem “This Opera of Peace.” She brings these abstractions to brilliant, jagged life, emerging into rather than out of the busyness of living: “Let the walls bear up the angle of the floor,/Let the mice be tragic for all that is caged,/Let time’s contagion mar us/until spoken people lie as particles of wind.
                                                                                                    — John Ashbery

I love Amy King's smile in photos of Amy King, Amy King's exuberance and looping, bashing panache (flamboyant manner, reckless courage) in the poems of Amy King, I'm going to say Amy King every chance I get in this blurb to make you think "I gotta read me some Amy King," especially if you're "looking for anything/that will pull the cork, boil the blood/of displeasure," as only the poems of Amy King can in the world in which Amy King is King (and Queen).     
                                                                                                     — Bob Hicok 

The first poem I read by Amy King was "MEN BY THE LIPS OF WOMEN" and it struck me with a force I had previously felt on encountering masterworks by Lorca and Dylan Thomas.  I won't live long enough to see if her poetry will continue to equal the magnificence of theirs, but the fact that she achieved it once (at least) proves to me it could.     
                                                                                                      — Bill Knott 

~~~~

VAGUE POEM

Vague Poem

The trip west.
—I think I dreamed that trip.
They talked a lot of “rose rocks”
or maybe “rock roses”
—I’m not sure now, but someone tried to get me some.
(And two or three students had.)

She said she had some at her house.
They were by the back door, she said.
—A ramshackle house.
An Army house? No, “a Navy house.” Yes,
that far inland.
There was nothing by the back door but dirt
or that same dry, monochrome, sepia straw I’d seen everywhere.
Oh, she said, the dog has carried them off.
(A big black dog, female, was dancing around us.)

Later, as we drank tea from mugs, she found one
“a sort of one.” “This one is just beginning. See—
you can see here, it’s beginning to look like a rose.
It’s—well, a crystal, crystals form—
I don’t know any geology myself …”
(Neither did I.)
Faintly, I could make out—perhaps—in the dull,
rose-red lump of (apparently) soil
a rose-like shape; faint glitters … Yes, perhaps
there was a secret, powerful crystal at work inside.

I almost saw it: turning into a rose
without any of the intervening
roots, stem, buds, and so on; just
earth to rose and back again.
Crystallography and its laws:
something I once wanted badly to study,
until I learned that it would involve a lot of arithmetic,
that is, mathematics.

Just now, when I saw you naked again,
I thought the same words: rose-rock, rock-rose …
Rose, trying, working, to show itself,
forming, folding over,
unimaginable connections, unseen, shining edges.
Rose-rock, unformed, flesh beginning, crystal by crystal,
clear pink breasts and darker, crystalline nipples,
rose-rock, rose-quartz, roses, roses, roses,
exacting roses from the body,
and the even darker, accurate, rose of sex—

Elizabeth Bishop, from The New Yorker

THE BIGHT

The Bight
by Elizabeth Bishop

[On my birthday]

At low tide like this how sheer the water is.
White, crumbling ribs of marl protrude and glare
and the boats are dry, the pilings dry as matches.
Absorbing, rather than being absorbed,
the water in the bight doesn’t wet anything,
the color of the gas flame turned as low as possible.
One can smell it turning to gas; if one were Baudelaire
one could probably hear it turning to marimba music.
The little ocher dredge at work off the end of the dock
already plays the dry perfectly off-beat claves.
The birds are outsize. Pelicans crash
into this peculiar gas unnecessarily hard,
it seems to me, like pickaxes,
rarely coming up with anything to show for it,
and going off with humorous elbowings.
Black-and-white man-of-war birds soar
on impalpable drafts
and open their tails like scissors on the curves
or tense them like wishbones, till they tremble.
The frowsy sponge boats keep coming in
with the obliging air of retrievers,
bristling with jackstraw gaffs and hooks
and decorated with bobbles of sponges.
There is a fence of chicken wire along the dock
where, glinting like little plowshares,
the blue-gray shark tails are hung up to dry
for the Chinese-restaurant trade.
Some of the little white boats are still piled up
against each other, or lie on their sides, stove in,
and not yet salvaged, if they ever will be, from the last bad storm,
like torn-open, unanswered letters.
The bight is littered with old correspondences.
Click. Click. Goes the dredge,
and brings up a dripping jawful of marl.
All the untidy activity continues,
awful but cheerful.

--Elizabeth Bishop

DAILY PARDONS

Daily Pardons

I wrangle for this bit
daily. The unfooled
bread of the body
yields to a regimented nap,
a bribe in a cup of drink.
It folds its offended petals.
Digits calm.
Then the long phrase of me
is spoken. Silence drools
over it, a lusty
and unmanaged child,
between two loaves rising,
dividing without end,
without a true middle:
what should have been done,
that which won't be. A Lord
presides over them, needing no sleep.
He worries about my anger
for the man hovering over
my seat on the train,
the implacable blade of being
unhappy in the present,
a blade as thin as the present's
sheath�

I speak to the Lord of things.
I ask him to pull in
his wake a night,
its incorrigible
repetitions
and make out of it a rule
to follow in the dawn
alongside birds that open and close�

--Ana Božičević, THE CORTLAND REVIEW

Like a Photograph

Like a Photograph

You might like to live in one of these smallish
houses that start to climb a hill, then fumble
back to the beginning as though nothing had happened.

You might enjoy a dinner of sandwiches
with the neighbor who makes concessions.
It will be all over in a minute, you said. We both
believed that, and the clock’s ticking: flame on, flame on.

John Ashbery

[from NO: A Journal of the Arts]

SPOIL SONG

SPOIL SONG

The man poses in the trees as a lion with a crooked tail. He looks
on the two girls with animal regret, if only he could play, if they
might want him. The upturned willow was commissioned
by the river. All afternoon he watches. The girls leap from
the willow. They hang their suits in the branches. Girls, girls
the world tells him. Girls should not sleep in the woods.
Their dinner, their fire, he watches. Pretend bear. Pretend
gun. In the air, a coal perfume. They wake twice, in the trash,
raccoons. Inside the tent they might want him. Not the raccoons,
not the bear. Girls should not sleep. Never animals
that bother you. One girl tears out the other's hair
to wake her. Again, the raccoons. A deer then. The lake. No.
What teaches them not to sleep. The man crouched over them.
Without light what teaches them. Soured air. Car keys. He mentions
the gun, crouched over them. Bear sighting, there is a bear.
They might want him with no light. Black bears don’t bother you.
What teaches one to play along. Over there. Stand guard. Thank god
you’ll help us. A little actress in a fake play. What teaches her
what to say. What teaches her to quiet the other. To unlock
the car. Thank him. To drive away.

Sara Michas-Martin

[from DIAGRAM]

NEW STREET

NEW STREET

The final light is the last fur and no animals left.
Listen to me as if you’ll be on earth forever.
Some lamps of the rehabilitated enriched neighborhood
Like six approaching mocking bodies in space
Are ochre, white, sorrel, sulphur blue-white,
Imitation suns of the sun letting go of us
In late winter under a big blue steel bridge
Where the warehouses and their repulsive sidewalks
Have been washed and dried as if they fit in a dishwasher.
Would you listen as if I were gone,
A time from now, but gone,
A time from now, but gone,
And you were around, not to pass on my impression
Of the lamps gathering in a darkening space
Like a round-up of suns in a solar-system prairie
Between the bridge and our building,
Not to pass on my impression
As an immortal impression (pitiful desire),
But I think it would not be too like hell
For you to travel alone by foot through the rare light
Under the obnoxious domineering bridge
Between the phonied buildings where the jobs will never come back.
Listen, I don’t know if everything’s an accident,
A continuing explosion in which the myths of eating and love are beside the point.

–Arthur Vogelsang

ADVICE FOR EXCELLENT ACHIEVEMENT AND EXEMPLARY BEHAVIOR

ADVICE FOR EXCELLENT ACHIEVEMENT AND EXEMPLARY BEHAVIOR

The Newscaster entered the history of her people,
the children study her for a grade, and they know her
from the advertising billboards in all the suburbs.
Who knows if she’s going to have her photo taken for “Playboy?”
Mommy, why does this lady have such a big ass?
So that the daily “Nova Makedonija” will not perish or else your father
will hang us. And why did you get an F in history?
The teacher asked who wrote our anthem,
and I said Ataturk, because I had melted into the palms
that the Turkish girl sitting next to me on the school bench
was warming between my legs, and drawing
bridal veils in my notebooks.
Shame on you son.
Is that why I sit at home, patching dead languages,
starching sonnets, is that why my back’s killing me
from washing Byzantine hymnographers’ manuscripts,
Havel’s letters and all sorts of other cult mystifications?
And every night my cheeks defecate,
and I have to tell you, not even Cleopatra went through
so much toilet paper. It is for nothing that
I press Delete, nothing can erase them,
and even less stop them from ejecting
feces–worms in a game of mirrors.
Oh son, son, it’s not the wind beating against the shutters that wakes you at night,
it’s the pores of my outer skin flushing themselves with water from the toilet,
and whoever arrives first in the dream
on the other side of the cable TV goes to pee. Look at her,
she’s all dressed up as if she was talking about Osiris,
not about the rice that caught diarrhea at dawn,
and do not ask shy she has such red eyes,
or why her nails are all gnarled, and her cheeks transparent.
Study son, repeat, not battles and peace summits,
but: why doesn’t a dead person’s hairdo stay in place
for more than ten minutes, why didn’t Isis
catch it from Osiris,
(and your father once told your uncle:
the more I beat her, the more she loves me),
because you have to know everything so as not to know anything
and be photocopied on freshly painted walls,
white walls for all those wonderful people.
Study son. Study will not harm the head underwritten
by the Lethe Insurance Company.

–Lidija Dimkovska, DO NOT AWAKEN THEM WITH HAMMERS

HYMN

HYMN

As complicated as a nightingale,
as tinny as,
kind-hearted as,
as crease-proof, as traditional,
as green grave sour, as streaky,
as symmetrical,
as hairy,
as near the water, true to the wind,
as fireproof, frequently turned over,
as childishly easy, well-thumbed as,
as new and creaking, expensive as,
as deeply cellared, domestic as,
as easily lost, shiny with use,
as thinly blown, as snow-chilled as,
as independent, as mature,
as heartless as,
as mortal as,
as simple as my soul.

–Günter Grass, from IN THE EGG AND OTHER POEMS

My More Merely

My More Merely

by Morgan Lucas Schuldt

In this surround, above the downs,
are my kind of live.

An mmhmm her
fever-few-&-far-between.

Cherry get, if gotten you be.
Otherhow unhindered by the things

of me. Things like: junk-hold lungs,
bouts with be, the umm-hush & long static of kinda can.

Are twenty-six flavors of -elicious
& what-if’s head-fuck nagging blood-back for more

cream & rush, heave & shush––
dirt-back glares having some pull over the percentages.

No tut-tut strut, no lapse in gush. Just holier than wow –
an old-fashioned dumb-lovely ahh yes! suitable for basking.

Sheer towardness, raredear, I’d sky-write
a surrender for.

Little red likelihooded
I lust so much.

~~

[From THIS RECORDING]

ROUGH GUIDE by Mark Haddon

ROUGH GUIDE

Be polite at the reception desk.
Not all the knives are in the museum.
The waitresses know that a nice boy
is formed in the same way as a deckchair.
Pay for the beer and send flowers.
Introduce yourself as Richard.
Do not refer to what somebody did
at a particular time in the past.
Remember, every Friday we used to go
for a walk. I walked. You walked.
Everything in the past is irregular.
This steak is very good. Sit down.
There is no wine, but there is ice cream.
Eat slowly. I have many matches.

–Mark Haddon, THE TALKING HORSE AND THE SAD GIRL AND THE VILLIAGE UNDER THE SEA

Lauren Bender - [of course I can look like a young boy]

of course I can look like a young boy
dear political poem,
I never really got into history

Mine eyes watching a man blow himself up
as you say,
a field full of shoes between us
a revolving bookcase between us
his flesh slides down the front of the TV, obscuring Janet Jackson’s sunbursting forth
in some less civilized countries the dead are dismembered by their family
left vulgar to vultures or was it all a mirage?

I would make a good soldier
please find enclosed my scores from Minesweeper,
which would be higher if I didn’t have to
cover my windows all day long
and then go to the factory
Dear ARMY, please send 8 x 10 to my 5-year old
her first sexual fantasy involved neon TRON and empathy between men

let’s just make light of it
he’ll just have to start spinning a little earlier tomorrow
let’s just gesture it down under the motion sensor
photons between us
inappropriate gnashing of teeth between us


[from Rock Heals]

Brian Howe - That Man Is Not Your Ladder

Is he after your money?
Have the man violently bounce
Your choice of 2 heights
Use the top three feet or so of your ladder
Safety shoes on hard surfaces/or have a man foot the
Climbing angle to say, only 45° instead of 75.5°
This homework still may not guarantee your ladder can pass

Do not climb onto the ladder from the side
Don’t compromise your balance by extending
your reach beyond
My heart goes out to the unfortunate man in
The places where trails do not exist are not well marked
Make sure your shoes aren't slippery
Heal the man on the floor and

With plenty of room for you and your youngster, you
May be more than happy to have a stay-at-home man
This man was not speaking for me
He does not know ME, my ... a lot of validity to it
As much as women do not want to
You gotta push 'em off your leg all the time

Criticism: I have lots of male friends who would never
Answer: Your friend doesn't find you attractive, or he's
Do not climb onto the ladder from the side
Don’t compromise your balance by extending
your reach beyond
My heart goes out to the unfortunate man in
The world beneath your tread?
Note: Your health and life are at stake when you use any ladder


[from Octopus Magazine]

Luis Cuauhtemoc Berriozabal - Shine

I shine on
the voices
that speak from
my TV.

I shine on
their fat lies
and lower
the volume.

I shine on
and tune out
the evil
of two lessers.



[from Shampoo Poetry]

Gina Franco - The Box

What did you learn from the dead?

To turn cold in stages to stage

bleed an invisible instant goddamn

bleeding to heart to get off your

chest to neck and stomach

blow it right out of the hole hard to piss off how does it go

how does it go goes stone stone deaf to so cold so

so we heard them last night shriek at each other the bejeezus though nobody hours heard the shots, you?

Past tense of shoot also called scattergun also a shot of clear liquid

an injection to interject. You?

Oh I gave it a shot resolved my greatest desire

is mean means to go

home a marked entry an engraved—no cloned—entry to how do

you sleep how do you recognize me now I'll

do to you do to you shotgun I mean hotshot I will I'll do it I'm sick

of you yeah yeah then go 'head I'm serious asshole like you

care to miscalculate the command of the exit wound to miss

fire also revolve, er, volver, also

called ghost word yeah gimme you faker you way to take

off—shit (past tense of shoot)—

go now I'm in sight.



[from Fence]