Mixes of long lines and short lines, sort of like at the
supermarket, are nice too. Then you can exercise your
type-A-itude by jumping from longer lines to shorter
ones, or you can stay where you are and do some Zen
breathing.
Hal
Art & Plastic Surgery
Halvard Johnson
================
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http://entropyandme.blogspot.com
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On Dec 6, 2007, at 4:38 PM, Peter Cudmore wrote:
> In cyberspace, there are no line ends... except that there are,
> artificially.
>
> I remember typesetting some poems of Jibanananda Das, and also Edwin
> Morgan,
> that didn't fit the portrait page. Das, we just had to compromise;
> Morgan I
> negotiated: I realized from the way he laid his manuscript out that he
> wanted the long line, but had been constrained. We were able simply
> to set
> that poem landscape, and trust the intelligent reader would rotate
> the book
> in order to read it.
>
> I love long lines, precisely because they transgress the orthodox
> frame.
>
> P
>
>> -----Original Message-----
>> From: Poetryetc: poetry and poetics
>> [mailto:[log in to unmask]] On
>> Behalf Of sharon brogan
>> Sent: 06 December 2007 21:20
>> To: [log in to unmask]
>> Subject: What It Is -- an exercise in long lines
>>
>> I send you these three things: a sparrow, an autumn leaf, a
>> squirrel. You
>> send the squirrel back.
>> I send you a chickadee. You tell me: We could hurt a lot of people,
>> if we
>> gave ourselves license.
>>
>> You send me license. I send it back, with regret. You return the
>> regret;
> you
>> refuse it. I tell you:
>> We have rain here. It is dreary. The garden is gloomy. Even this
>> room,
> with
>> its tokens and paintings,
>>
>> with its candles, its chandeliers and Buddha's from elsewhere, even
>> this
>> room, is dim. The cats,
>> the dogs, the books in their paper bindings -- we all sleep. The
>> prayer
>> rugs, spread out on the floor,
>>
>> are dusty and thin. You tell me I walk a dangerous line. I ask if
>> you ever
>> believed? You refuse
>> to discuss it. You hold a dying man in your arms. I hold a dying
>> man in my
>> arms. They waste away
>>
>> in our arms. I send you a poem, a wide summer sky, a hope for the
>> future.
>> You keep the poem.
>> You send me your children, but they slip away. One is drowning now,
>> caught
>> in the undercurrent.
>>
>> I send you a book of autographs, of photographs, of words. You send
>> me
>> silence. I send you a thorn,
>> pulled from my side. I send you cinnamon, cardamon, and salt. I
>> send you
>> bitter lemons. The glaciers
>>
>> are melting, the plains are parched. But still each day I put out
>> seed for
>> the birds. I save the bits
>> of stale bread. I wait, I watch, for something. I ask you: What is
>> this?
> You
>> tell me: It is what it is.
>>
>> --
>>
>>
>> ~ SB | http://www.sbpoet.com | =^..^=
|