Gee, I'm not sure any poet has to tell us every thing or make
footnotes for local references, which are nevertheless part of the
personal system out of which the poem emerges, J.
But I'm even more worried about demanding that a poem somehow make
'realistic' sense, that it tell a story (not that a poem can't, look
at Frederick's work). This one moves, taking sharp turns that I rather
enjoyed for their verve, their speed.
Doug
On 7-Sep-08, at 5:01 PM, Judy Prince wrote:
> R'Owl, I immediately loved this bcuz of the "swifts cloud" and its
> continuing with "vertical face.....faux marble" and then I got
> lost, had to
> hop down from the truck's cab to see if the axles were still somehow
> connected to the chassis.
> You made me connect faux marble and glass, as if they were the same
> item;
> then you forced me to wander around holding the word "sometimes" to
> which
> there may've been a connect with its preceding bits or its next
> bits....dunno which!
>
> Further, I have no notion what "find purchase" means, dunno what
> Hammersmith
> Palais and Whites are or where they may be, can't "see" eave-less
> walls,
> sterile crops, naked skin on arctic ice, or fingers in volcanic
> ash---and
> don't know why "they" still look for rest.
>
> If there's not some kind of narrative, I stop fighting with the
> words, and
> fold up the email. And if the seemingly unrelated bits aren't fairly
> concrete and NEW [fresh]--- {eave-less walls, sterile crops, naked
> skin on
> arctic ice, fingers in volcanic ash}, then I wonder why you're
> torturing me.
> Kick it, then, don't just blat on the page and expect me to figure
> it all
> out! I think you're hiding, and I naturally want to know what and
> why.
>
> Give you 24 hours to do make it real.
>
> Jud
Douglas Barbour
[log in to unmask]
http://www.ualberta.ca/~dbarbour/
Latest books:
Continuations (with Sheila E Murphy)
http://www.uap.ualberta.ca/UAP.asp?LID=41&bookID=664
Wednesdays'
http://abovegroundpress.blogspot.com/2008/03/new-from-aboveground-press_10.html
A little planet blues, for the
deathwatch.
A season of rictus riffs.
Dennis Lee
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