Why this?

The occasional piece of my own and a generous helping of others' creations I find inspiring. Site is named for a beloved book by one of my favorite writers, Italo Calvino, whose fanciful work lights--and delights--my soul.

Tuesday, July 7, 2015

Bits from Kenneth Goldsmith in the April 2015 Poetry

Writers try too hard to express themselves. We're working with loaded material. How can language--any language--be anything but expressive?

Writing on an electronic platform is not only writing, but also doubles as archiving; the two processes are inseparable. 

Somehow during Christmastime in a small house crammed with extended family, reading the Sunday paper is acceptable, but reading a book is considered antisocial and rude. Many times I've been asked while reading, "Is everything alright?"

Poetry is an underutilized resource waiting to be exploited. Because it has no remunerative value, it’s liberated from the orthodoxies that constrain just about every other art form. It’s one of the great liberties of our field — perhaps one of the last artistic fields with this privilege. Poetry is akin to the position that conceptual art once held: radical in its production, distribution, and democratization. As such, it is obliged to take chances, to be as experimental as it can be. Since it’s got nothing to lose, it stirs up passions and emotions that, say, visual art hasn’t in half a century. There’s still a fight. Why would anyone play it safe in poetry?

More: http://www.poetryfoundation.org/poetrymagazine/article/250240

"These were the moments I lived for"

 --Louise Glück

"My story begins very simply"

Thursday, July 2, 2015

The Old Woman Leaves the Sea

I cut my hair, threw it at the desert sage.
My curl is natural; this picture is a cage.
I'm leaving it. I've had my time among
stones and water. I'm going to the garden.
I want black earth, bronze mud, yellow
daffodil, green grass. I want to ride a bicycle,
sing a cappella. I want to take the train to Rome.
I've put all my eggs in one basket. I'll get clothes
that fit. I've finished fasting. I'm definite. 

I lie back to stare at the sky. It's another day
in the life of my grief. There's water everywhere.
I'm not doing enough, just gathering stones,
sitting here by the sea. I'm not the only mother 
whose son has died. Why do I think I deserve 
to laze here after seven years? I move my leg
right, then left, against the sand, watch
for an opening between sky, water.

--Sharon Charde