"The Hockey Sweater", a Canadian story about an ungrateful child who only wants clothes with the proper corporate logo, turned 30 today.
— David McGimpsey (@DaveMcGimpsey) November 26, 2014
Tuesday, 25 November 2014
Sunday, 23 November 2014
Their revolution painted on a wall. Revolution
scent in the rust-colored dirt, and the rat-heavy
palms, and the blue diesel smaze over the former
capital. We waited. On the corner, insistent laughter.
On the corner, a turned over bus—flame bathed
to the metal. Our tape measures cocked,
as per our orders. We were given
a belt each and a night. Mine was short-haired.
with jagged white gear teeth and a dirt-sniffing
mechanism for quicker dirt sifting
and much data to desist. Lots: “Encada barrio…”
and “our ideas are our weapons.” Among other things.
Revolution, revolution. Faint image of the revolution’s
big man on the plaza clock. Drawn in wrought iron.
Splashed on a smock. The sounds we watched for:
night wind cracking canvas sails; wood stick
rhythmically striking wood stick; hastily made
motorcades’ ragged sirens. The revolution?
Through our high powered geigers: twin-stroke
underbuzz of revolution’s engine; the puttering
three-wheeled revolution; the landless campesinos
beaten by pots and pans into land and nothing
we could do. They resented our husks.
“Of two eyes one always lies,” this we knew. We planned
removing the other, replacing it with Jefferson dirt:
dirt of the sea, empire dirt, wind down from the north
dirt, father dirt, dirt of scallions and ghost
galleons. The elephant god Jefferson. Trident
in one hand, another with axe, snake in another
and in another his reigns, steering his eight rat team,
as through the green clouds they steam.
On Jefferson’s neck a lush green alligator hung
from a bone chain like a hymn. As always. Family
bones, yet distant; somewhat empirical and fencing
the hill, long shards of oxidized metal. There went
tradition, bronze titan. The balcony scene:
swarms of wetblack hair surrounding
wetblack rocks on the tree-less frozen
sand expanse. Once the show trials were over
we would get to work, but quietly. Such were our orders.
Swimming style analysis, certain constellations
notated from the tattered revolutionary cupolas’
ceilings, hands to secure a detainee’s head (placement
and number). In their revolutionary stories the sound
of dirt on animal skin drums was like the sound
of a blinking eye roving wild in its socket was like…
Their revolution had its big man and its new man tales
of the monolith sky. We had our love.
From Congotronic (Anansi, 2015) by Shane Book
Saturday, 22 November 2014
For Amanda Jernigan, reports of mythopoetry's demise have been exaggerated. She singles out Mark Callanan's mermaid poems as an example of some of the broad new directions the movement is taking:
Insofar as myth is simply the narrative element in literature, the story of mythopoetry is the story of poets’ fascination with story itself, from classical accounts of gods and monsters, to the genesis stories of science and religion, to literary narratives, to pop-culture anecdotes. (Macpherson calls myth, very broadly, ‘any element in literature that has the effect of enlarging a work’s scope beyond the merely descriptive’.)
She also makes a fascinating point about how lyric poetry may, in part, be responsible for the renewed interest in myth:
But lyric poems—contemporary, written-down lyric poems—retain their fascination with narrative. And it is perhaps precisely at the point that poets move away from the longer forms we associate with epic, and toward the shorter, lyric modes, that myths in the sense of canonical stories, stories recognised within a culture by certain basic and recurring elements, become most useful to poets: because this kind of story can be referenced in a phrase, a word.Jernigan, however, quibbles with a line from Michael Lista’s review of her recent book, and goes on to explain why he doesn’t get contemporary poets incorporating myth in their poetry. This is an odd comment, since Lista does incorporate myth in his poetry. In fact, The Scarborough’s power comes almost entirely from the perspective-altering use of the Orpheus story, for example. More than that, I would argue that Lista’s book might even show us a way past Jernigan’s fear of mythopoets being tagged as “appropriators.” Lista doesn’t practice costumey adapations or new-twist translations or skillful rehashings. Instead, myths become a re-seeing—they enter his metaphorical idiom, his line-making, his sense of self. To borrow from Eliot, Lista becomes the catalyst in the reaction that changes the myths that feed him.
Wednesday, 19 November 2014
Tuesday, 18 November 2014
By Jason Guriel
Yesterday, my poem "Reviewing a Unicorn" appeared on the Lemon Hound website. Not too long after, Natalie Zina Walschots—for brevity’s sake, I’ll go with her nom de guerre, "Natalie Zed"—Tweeted about it:
Not to imply anything, but Guriel's poem http://t.co/sUehClhp2x talks about criticism rather a lot like I did: http://t.co/i2eOXqp4Ry
— Star Lord (@NatalieZed) November 17, 2014
Not to imply that Zed deserves exhibits A through Z—but for the record: I submitted "Reviewing a Unicorn" by email to Paul Muldoon at The New Yorker and Michael Lista at The Walrus, in December 2012, well before Zed's post. (Alas, the poem was rejected by both magazines; I have the email threads.) I also made mention of a poem about sawing the horn off a unicorn in an interview for the Fall 2012 issue of The New Quarterly, which appeared online in January 2013—again, well before Zed’s post.
Not to imply that Zed’s prose is banal, but more troubling than a Tweet that doesn't quite have the nerve to commit to its accusation is the suggestion that I would steal from a short paragraph that:
- makes the mistake of “make it’s point,”
- clubs the reader with the noun “writing” five times,
- is content to employ the phrase “razor’s edge,” and
- is content to employ the phrase “keen, clever, diamond-edged writing.” (Doesn’t “diamond-edged” do the same work as “keen”? Isn’t “diamond-edged” a cliché?)
(Illustration by Sarah Goodreau)
Sunday, 16 November 2014
While I was gone, a storm
chewed up a metre of frontage
and brought down the last of the birches
lording over the place. The gulls are all shrieking
with glee, claiming
rain hammered the windows like bullets.
Must have been
one wild night. Like that time I woke to the ruckus
of uncles in the kitchen. Jim lurching
as he cursed the others and clung
to a mickey of old C.C. That burned going down
and fired him up. And Bob
starting in on Fred
for falling off the ladder again—smashed
at two in the afternoon, and a gallon of good paint
wasted. Salt spray of glass as John and Ken came sailing
in through the picture window
in a furious embrace
of brotherly misunderstanding. Another fine
get-together wrecked, and for what. I guess boys
routinely strapped with alder switches
grow into rootless men
with watermelon bellies and sweet-potato noses.
Moose eaters, wife beaters,
mean drinkers, dark thinkers,
my father and his brothers never had a chance
and then they had it coming.
It takes more than one good blow
from the north to bring them down,
but when they do fall, it’s alone and in the dark.
Sunday, 2 November 2014
A stranger with the crude audacity
to stick her head inside you, look around,
she hums (a loud, obnoxious buzzing sound)
but doesn’t stroke you, even call you pretty.
She takes some pictures of your inner city,
just husks of buildings, bridges, not profound
shots of your thoughts in motion. She’s not bound
to value you as you. So you feel shitty.
And when she’s finished sounding all your parts
she’ll mount an exhibition of the shots
she’s taken of your crannies, soul-suffused
or not. The critics say that of the arts
that show the way the body-machine rots
hers is preeminent. But you feel used.
From Hungry by Daniel Karasik (Cormorant, 2013)