Tuesday, July 2, 2013

A Blur, a Deeper Blur. A Clarity I Can't Carry

  • On the William Gass Digital exhibit.
  • I'm trying to read Gass's Middle C. I can't.
  • I wrote a monologue about neenering as kudzu then removed it from this post. Note past tense verb removed. It's not dead, just temporarily transplanted to a word document.
  • Where it won't, I fear, die.
  • I am the reason not to blog, tweet, or read either, at least for me.
  • I can't not. Even anti-neenering is neenering.
  • Still, clusterfuckless today, hoping to start a streak, knowing I can't.
  • I hadn't read until last night so didn't linked to or comment on Mark Edmundson's article last week on The Decline of American Verse. First, I didn't have time when I heard about it and then forgot about it, and didn't see anyone I read respond much less respond in anger, so perhaps this is The Decline of Trolling American Poetry Readers more than anything else. Second, it's trolling.
  • But here's an impassioned response to the trolling.
  • I have never read poetry better. I credit the poets. There are poets working today - somebody should post a poem a day, many of the poems recent poems by contemporary poets, on some shitty blog - that make me jealous and envious think poetry is the only medium in which I hear new sounds in typed words.


Joseph Massey

outside sounds
double the day's

indoor confusion.
How to untwine
noise, to see.

There's the bay,
highway slashed
beneath; water

a weaker shade
of gray than this
momentary sky's

widening bruise.
The page turns
on the table, bare

despite all
I thought was
written there.


Lorine Niedecker

Feign a great calm;
all gay transport soon ends.
Chant: who knows -
flight's end or flight's beginning
for the resting gull?

Heart, be still.
Say there is money but it is rusted;
say the time of moon is not right for escape.
It's the color in the lower sky
too broadly suffused,
or the wind in my tie.

Know amazedly how
often one takes his madness
into his own hands
and keeps it.


Joseph Massey

         after Lorine Niedecker

Beyond a hand
held beyond itself
the mist is too thick to see.
A dream fragment (a phrase
I wanted to remember)
goes mute in this -
extinguished. Call it
consciousness. What
we lose to recover.
Acacia branched bend
the hill's edge
off-orange. A blur,
a deeper blur.
A clarity I can't carry.


  1. somebody should post a poem a day, many of the poems recent poems by contemporary poets, on some ... blog

    or even more than one poem a day, if the poems are sort of short

  2. Have you considered "Paradise Lost" again? If your focus is good than the rewards are boundless.

    1. That's a great idea. I can see in my mind exactly where my copy is on the shelves. Has the notes in the margin from Rosenblatt's class. Wonder if I should get a fresh copy so that reading doesn't intrude on this one.

      We might be celebrating the 4th by checking out a new Ethiopian restaurant I hear great things about for dinner. Wanna?

  3. Each Hill Country Alliance board meeting opens with a poem. Poetry helps to create sense of calm and mindfulness. It restores purpose and it opens up new sources of ideas, energy and creativity. We share our poems with you and encourage you to also share with others.

  4. A hearty thanks for throwing up some pomes/ on the shores of these interwebs. You don't get near enough recogs/ for that thing. So there's that.

    But I do feel there's insufficient bleggalgazing around here sometimes.

  5. he speaks through the poems of others so well ,of why i look in ..if only able for a moment ..each day now . / back up from something of the shore near sunnyside pavilion not rented out for a priv. , some ' of low way ,not high ..nor under .. here on this now past long weekend .. . something of a glass menagerie , and of ..out in ..to your ..in ..of theater