I cannot claim more than the briefest of acquaintances. The poem in question
was EM's contribution to Chapman 78-9, the double issue on Ian Hamilton
Finlay, which is my absolute favourite of all the volumes of Chapman
Magazine I was involved with (apart from the one on Hamish Henderson, no. 82
-- e-mails, you can argue with yourself).
To have done typesetting for IHF, and, separately, Alasdair Gray in those
days (i.e., to have had feedback from them at the personal level), is such
an enormous and undeserved honour that I don't know where to hide. One does
as one is asked.
Is that enough, A?
P
> -----Original Message-----
> From: Poetryetc: poetry and poetics [mailto:[log in to unmask]] On
> Behalf Of andrew burke
> Sent: 06 December 2007 23:11
> To: [log in to unmask]
> Subject: Re: What It Is -- an exercise in long lines
>
> Ah, Edwin Morgan is one of my heroes. Please tell us more anout your
> dealings with the man, or b/c me if you think it would be too trivial
> for this highminded company ...
>
> Andrew
>
> On 07/12/2007, Peter Cudmore <[log in to unmask]> 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 | =^..^=
> >
>
>
> --
> Andrew
> http://hispirits.blogspot.com/
> http://www.flickr.com/photos/aburke/
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