Thank you, Edmund, for the kind remark and the connections to the other
texts.
Yes, this wrestling with Stein's "Tender Buttons" I find full of
resistances - but I find the toughness, the mostly personal opaqueness of
her text (beyond getting nor more than the syntactical play on her page) -
this resistance, kind of fighting or dancing through her words becomes a
means to surprise myself with the language that emerges.
Going after Stein with a surrealistic sense of play.
At least that is my senses of it - and it has definitely commanding my
writing life.
Stephen
http://stephenvincent.net/blog/
> this latest Tenderly hit all the right _buttons_ with me, I'm really
> starting to get an ear for the series.
>
> This one seems to come at us from the space between Stein and Ashbery,
> bristling on the way past - this line seems to echo, darkly -
>
> "Sacred is a blue boat, tormented oared forth - crying."
>
> with Girls On The Run -
>
> ..."she planned the big blue boat
> that future generations will live in, and thank us for. It twitched
> at its steely moorings, and seemed to say: Live, like life, with me."
>
> Cheers,
>
> Edmund
>
>
> Subject: Snap - Vincent
> Comments: cc: Gail Larrick <[log in to unmask]>
> Content-type: text/plain; charset="ISO-8859-1"
>
> Tenderly #43
>
> Neglect edges superiority. The wet inside the coil
>
> Spurns a throttle. She has no waist, a red
>
> Three-cornered hat, no one can explain the bulge
>
> The cork floor is not an ocean, nor the green appearance
>
> One occasionally ascribes "sacred" to the dark pond
>
> Under the Oak the noise thickens, a farmeršs tractor idles:
>
> When noise is the color of length, one walks more
>
> Slowly, the vertical is an argument, theology is
>
> The curious quartet inside the upper balustrade:
>
> Who split the marble Christ in half, who invented
>
> Raspberry candied syrup: the blood of Christ
>
> Street to street, the man with the marble blue
>
> Bowler hat insists that his gold cane is a
>
> Bemusement, no less, an artifact, twirling it
>
> Horizontal to the eye. To read poetry on every other
>
> Sunday is no less whimsical. Wide is the blue color
>
> That surrounds the horizon. A dying mother
>
> Pulls three yellow leaves and two snails, one by one
>
> Off the lemon tree. Sorrow is no secret to the wretched.
>
> Sacred is a blue boat, tormented oared forth - crying.
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