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BRITISH-IRISH-POETS  2000

BRITISH-IRISH-POETS 2000

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Subject:

Re: Alison's whereabouts Post Scriptum

From:

"erminia" <[log in to unmask]>

Reply-To:

erminia

Date:

Wed, 20 Oct 1999 00:54:36 +0100

Content-Type:

text/plain

Parts/Attachments:

Parts/Attachments

text/plain (155 lines)

I would like to apologize (so please excuse me ) for the
intolerable amount of misspells in my posts:
there are two reasons for them;
first - I am a foreigner and my first language is not English, neither it is
my second
second - my sight is going so bad; I am long sighted and the keyboard for me
is something vague:
a marmalade of letters.
But lately, when I receive my own posts and read them - I do horrify, don't
worry.
I still have a linguistic-grammatical  consciousness which makes me shiver
to the bone.
Excuse me, then.

Erminia






----- Original Message -----
From: erminia <[log in to unmask]>
To: <[log in to unmask]>; british & irish poets
<[log in to unmask]>
Sent: Wednesday, October 20, 1999 12:32 AM
Subject: Re: Alison's whereabouts


> The account of Alison's window
> - which probably is the one half way between the observational and the
> intimate -
> is a good example of what I was saying.
> She was not struggling towards a peculiar form, but towards the content -
> and yet a form came out spontaneously by the arrangement of the two
> paragraphs,
>  the first almost confessional, with an abundance of oppressivively
arranged
> psychological details of her personal feelings in front of the possibility
> of a outside or alternative reality beyond the window, in cold Melbourne
> winter, with its night rains and the baby asleep in his bed, - in the
> Plathian mode -  (therefore what one dreams about, more than what one
sees)
> and the second paragraph , extremely linear, descriptive, almost
> cumulative(all the names of the authors' books quoted and the objects on
the
> desk and scattered around her room in a rather disheartened minimalist
> attempt to reduce the world to a list and oneself to the camera-eye
> recording their bare presence).
>
> But Alison also adds a reference to her personal XXth century cultural
myths
> (Celan, Brecht, German philosopher Gadamer, and so on), which corresponds
to
> the overcoming of the occasionally of the minimalist attempt, making the
> second paragraph something allusive and compact, organized around
something
> willingly unsaid.
> In Doing so, Alison's "Whereabouts" transcends the treatment of the
everyday
> life themes of domesticity, in the first paragraph - with the window being
> something which gives on a desiderated but unobtainable reality.
> When the time comes for her when the conditions are finally set to obtain
> that external world, later on in life (second paragraph we imagine the
> children have gone) she oddly stays in and her view from her window  ,
> instead of describing what is beyond, ends with a detailed record of pile
of
> documents (making her account verge to the computational, as in an office
> register). This is a failed idyll - wanted and rejected - with the world
> outside the window. It seems simple and spontaneous, but simple and
> spontaneous is not.
>
> Best and wormest wishes
>
> Erminia
>
>
>
>
>
>
>
> ----- Original Message -----
> From: <[log in to unmask]>
> To: british & irish poets <[log in to unmask]>
> Sent: Tuesday, August 15, 2000 11:53 PM
> Subject: Re: whereabouts
>
>
> > The house very quiet after the children have left for school.  They
watch
> > Dragon Ball Z in the morning while they eat their Weetbix, a Japanese
> > cartoon with amazing graphics, a soundtrack consisting almost entirely
of
> > grunts and an incomprehensible plot. Not my turn to take them this
> > morning.  Freezing cold Melbourne winter, with signs of early spring:
the
> > magnolia in the garden is just swelling with big purplish buds and the
> > cats are shedding drifts of hair all over the house.   It's been raining
> > all night and my smallest son crept into bed and kept turning around
like
> > a ratchet, wrapping himself in the doona and dragging it off everyone
> > else.  I was so tired I didn't wake up and just dreamt I was cold.
> >
> > My desk.  My study occupies half of what otherwise would be a sitting
> > room, next to the living room where the television and breakfast just
> > took place.  It has big windows that look out to a scruffy garden and
the
> > houses opposite, with a lot of sky.  Behind me bookshelves with all the
> > books I could fit in them - the rest are out in the shed in boxes.  Of
> > course I picked the wrong ones, and am constantly searching for a book
> > that isn't there.  All my poetry books are to my left and behind me.  My
> > desk is a mess.  Stacked up leaning against the computer a random
> > selection of books:  Brewers Dictionary of Phrase and Fable, John
> > Skelton's Complete English Poems, Bertolt Brecht's Manuel of Piety,
> > Gerard's Herbal, Jaan Kaplinski's The Wandering Border, Douglas Oliver's
> > Selected Poems and Gadamer's book on Celan.  I can't remember why most
of
> > them are there.  On top of my computer a tiny Buddha from the $2 shop, a
> > little box I got for my birthday from one of the children and a dried
> > rose from my wedding last year, and leaning against the screen a small
> > framed photo of my daughter, aged about five, looking speakingly at the
> > camera.  On the desk a chaotic pile of zip drives and note books and
more
> > birthday boxes, one shaped like a heart.  A brass statue of Ganesha, a
> > fertility figure from Indonesia carved in dark wood given me by my
> > sister, a cynical looking imp squatting on a carved cylinder in which I
> > keep all the children's milk teeth and locks of hair from first cuttings
> > (my gods).  Above them to my left a portrait of my mother, painted by a
> > man who wanted to marry her when she was younger than I am.  A brass
> > figure of two birds on a branch that belonged to my father in law, whom
I
> > never met.   Otherwise two piles of documents I must sort through -
> > bills, letters.  Another pile underneath my desk, with photocopies of
> > material on Aguirre.
> >
> > On the chair in front of me a pile of clean washing that has to be
sorted
> > through and put away.  My feet are freezing.  Time to have a shower and
> > begin the day.
> >
> > Alison
> >
> >
> >
> >
> >
> >
> >
> >
>


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