Thanks, mate. A

On 07/12/2007, Peter Cudmore <[log in to unmask]> wrote:
> 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/
>


-- 
Andrew
http://hispirits.blogspot.com/
http://www.flickr.com/photos/aburke/