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Since I named checked Bob Creeley in my list of favorite dead poets I thought I’d pull out a couple of poems and maybe win a few more readers for him.
Shadows, on the far wall,
of courtyard, from the sun
back of house, faint
traceries, of the leaves,
the arch of the balcony–
greens, faded white,
high space of flat
sits opposite this
window, in high door,
across the floor here
from this table
where I’m sitting writing,
feet on cold floor’s
tiles, watching this light.
-Robert Creeley, from Later
Like a shadow, which must be traced backwards to find the origin, this poem draws back. Beginning in shadows, we must follow the poem into the light.
Juno has got to be one of the most heartless movies I’ve seen that was attempting to be heartfelt.
This is not a complaint toward the drama of the movie, which was competent, but a meta-critique: if we are held accountable for sins against fictional character then Diablo Cody will have to answer for her treatment of Vanessa (played by Jennifer Garner). How can you rip the heart from the heart & soul of the movie?
Seriously? This movie promotes the idea that you should find someone who loves you for who you are. Thank you, Disneyland, may I have some pixie-dust with that?
The bell from far away
how it moves along in its coming
through the spring haze
To the Person (whom I will not link) who questions the moral aptitude of the institution (whom I will not mention) that published pictures of a underaged celeb (who is mostly undressed): You cannot presume it is child pornography and then proceed to republish the picture on your website.
“At a time when the value of a motion picture is indicated by the rotation of a chubby thumb through 180 degrees, one should remember that, of all the duties required of the professional critic, perhaps the least important…is the delivery of a verdict.”
snagged from theCedarroom
Of Mans First Disobedience, and the Fruit
Of that Forbidden Tree, whose mortal tast
Brought Death into the World, and all our woe,
With loss of EDEN, till one greater Man
Restore us, and regain the blissful Seat,
Sing Heav’nly Muse, that on the secret top
Of OREB, or of SINAI, didst inspire
That Shepherd, who first taught the chosen Seed,
In the Beginning how the Heav’ns and Earth
Rose out of CHAOS: Or if SION Hill
Delight thee more, and SILOA’S Brook that flow’d
Fast by the Oracle of God; I thence
Invoke thy aid to my adventrous Song,
That with no middle flight intends to soar
Above th’ AONIAN Mount, while it pursues
Things unattempted yet in Prose or Rhime.
And the finish, which I think far fewer have read than have read the first.
They looking back, all th’ Eastern side beheld
Of Paradise, so late thir happie seat,
Wav’d over by that flaming Brand, the Gate
With dreadful Faces throng’d and fierie Armes:
Som natural tears they drop’d, but wip’d them soon;
The World was all before them, where to choose
Thir place of rest, and Providence thir guide:
They hand in hand with wandring steps and slow,
Through EDEN took thir solitarie way.
“When we’re all caught up in all the things we’re against, we forget the beauty of the things we’re supposed to be for.”
-David Dark, Everyday Apocalypse
Inspired by the Telegraph’s list and as a companion to my list of Ten Best Books of Poetry from Dead Poets I here present my top ten favorite books of modern poetry written by poets who at the time of writing are alive. Catchy title, I know. I should mention that I’m drawing from a shelf that carries 200+ books of poetry. So while I may not be an expert in the field I’m no neophyte.
In every book, or in every book worth reading, there is a period of conversion (or if you want to use an insipid description: of falling in love) that must take place before a book can begin to work on your mind. I remember the moment when the scales fell off and Geri Doran’s debut book began to open unto me. I’ve written a full review that can be found here: The Unnameable Holy.
There’s something very much like bungee jumping in reading the poetry of Matthea Harvey. In her debut volume she leaps from object to object as though stone to stone crossing a stream and we are dragged along or carried aloft by her intense delight in the world. A full review of her third book “Modern Life” can be found here: So This Is How You Live in the Present.
For a book so framed and focused on snow, so dark with winter, there is a brightness and a warmth that breaks out constantly that transforms the world much like snow. Dobby Gibson’s first book is centered on the delights of veiling and unveiling that the world undergoes. The title is not, as you would think amongst the frigid imagery, the earth’s poles, but rather opposites; the book presumes a divide, a barrier that must be overlooked or healed.