“Such a small, pure object a poem could be, made of nothing but air, a tiny string of letters, maybe small enough to fit in the palm of your hand. But it could blow everybody’s head off.”
–Mary Karr, from Lit
There’s a hurricane in the vortex of Saturn, and it’s the size of Texas or France.
I had sort of come to the realization that no matter how close to documentation or retelling of something that I did, thought, think, takes place in the poem, that the person(s) in the poems isn’t me. At least not in the same way I am me when I am eating breakfast, shotgunning beers, crushing on someone, or scraping my knee. When I put it in the poem it’s just a facsimile of the actual thing even though it may sometimes feel like a diary entry. Dude, I totally forgot whatever point I was trying to make. I think what I am trying to say is that you don’t need to make any additional effort to separate yourself from the poem because the act of writing it has that built into it. There is some quote about things dying as soon as you name them but I can’t really remember it or who it was by.
–email from Junior Clemons
1 a particle is a thing in itself. a wave is a disturbance in something else. waves themselves are probably not disturbed.
2 there are some big particles inside Red Doc> — of information (ice), of grief (mother), of caprice (musk ox mind) — but by the time i wrote them down i had moved out to the condition of wave.
3 maybe i’m just saying that i’m a tough old bugger.
4 remember Monica Vitti saying, I can’t watch the sea for a long time or what’s happening on land doesn’t interest me anymore
(from Sam Anderson’s NY Times interview with Anne Carson)
Here’s an amazing short from my buddies Brad & Lowell.
Dionne Warwick has also eaten at Lois the Pie Queen.
April is almost upon us, and if you want to get a poem everyday as part of my April Poetry Mailer, all you have to do is say so! Email me, etc!
Just saw these gals last night. Dreamy times! Also, I have that blanket on my bed!