3 days ago
3 weeks ago
4 months ago
The Book of Goodbyes by Jillian Weise
"In a world where subway cars are filled with passengers staring at tiny screens, where to like something you click something, we are lucky to have Jillian Weise’s new book of poems to take to bed, to take on the bus, to sneak into our pacified English Lit curriculum. The Book of Goodbyes is a narrative, lyric, modern, mash-up of our experience on earth."
"The Book of Goodbyes is in effect a Book of Eternal Returns. The poems lead us through our minute daily-life distractions with a matter-of-fact candor that expands the dimensions of intimacy available to us. Ultimately, the Goodbye itself is the muse here – to leave a thing, an idea, a person, a way of life that limits your own being – and to sing for the process of leaving. Weise helps us understand that when we say goodbye, we leave something in the past as much as in the future—this book is a beautiful lesson in how to do exactly that, and in how the humbleness of doing so is in fact heroic."
7 months ago
Jane Gregory’s My Enemies records a poet’s search for meaning in a landscape of combined and dissolving definitions. Affirming disaster and its beyond, these poems sing toward belief — a self-made belief that will not rely on any static symbol or logic or idol. Gregory’s dynamic, unpredictable enactments of the modern world avow vulnerability to a belief compatible with self-consciousness. Sometimes triumphant, sometimes overcome or self-ruinous, My Enemies never halts in its search for definition, even when it claims to not have been written—as in the serial “Book I Will Not Write” poems. Each poem here establishes a new, necessary material and mode for our uncertain world that can offer its readers something to believe in; despite forces internal and external that try to undo us, Gregory’s poems redo that undoing until “my enemies” becomes instead “my eyes many,” a new sonic way of seeing.
"When Jane Gregory speaks of ‘enemies’ she speaks of those elements that (following Valery) ravage books and people alike: fire, humidity, wild animals, time, and their own inner content. Gregory knows how to let those elementals run free in her own words, and to make a friend of their disequilibrating energy. Her work renews romanticism in the twilight of time, knowing that even the spelling of words is the spilling of everything they cannot say. Here, the poet has overwritten the multiples of her ‘Book I Will Not Write’ with ‘the fire in the ocean’ - with words that, reduced to their very atoms, ‘in the dark: s,i,n,g.’" -Andrew Joron
11 months ago
Brautigan fastidiously controlled each novel’s jacket, typography, layout, and even promotional materials. Such powers, rarely bestowed on any author, resulted in the Brautigan brand, arguably more famous than anything in the books themselves. The cover photo for Trout Fishing in America is exemplary: in front of the Benjamin Franklin statue in San Francisco’s Washington Square Park, Brautigan appears like a Gold Rush prospector, his girlfriend at his side in style. For his friend Keith Abbott, the photo displays “His open, cheerful, confident expression … characteristic of his belief in his prospects, while his blue work shirt displays the uniform of artistic poverty”. The increasingly beautiful girlfriends, who always joined the author on his covers, were integral to his mystique. (via)
Richard Brautigan’s Trout Fishing in America
1 year ago
Ships that pass in the night, and speak each other in passing,
Only a signal shown and a distant voice in the darkness;
So on the ocean of life we pass and speak one another,
Only a look and a voice, then darkness again and a silence.
-Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
1 year ago
Tom Waits recites “The Laughing Heart” by Charles Bukowski
1 year ago
1 year ago
Raymond Carver on Happiness
1 year ago
Mistake by Charles Bukowski
I reached up into the top of the closet
and took out a pair of blue panties
and showed them to her and
asked “are these yours?”
and she looked and said,
"no, those belong to a dog."
she left after that and I haven’t seen
her since. she’s not at her place.
I keep going there, leaving notes stuck
into the door. I go back and the notes
are still there. I take the Maltese cross
cut it down from my car mirror, tie it
to her doorknob with a shoelace, leave
a book of poems.
when I go back the next night everything
is still there.
I keep searching the streets for that
blood-wine battleship she drives
with a weak battery, and the doors
hanging from broken hinges.
I drive around the streets
an inch away from weeping,
ashamed of my sentimentality and
a confused old man driving in the rain
wondering where the good luck
From: Love is a Dog From Hell by Charles Bukowski
1916 Crime in Verse Prison Philosophy: To Mother
There’s a life that’s been wasted,
Going down in sin and shame;
All the evil it has tasted,
It would take much time to name.