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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