Skip to main content

bring back the lion

I am not sure why there is sometimes so much build up before writing. It's usually when I am revising/restructuring. The intial writing phases are no pressure/no problem. But getting the structure! There's some anxiety.

And the perrenial questions. Mostly: why do/make this thing called poetry? Is this making doing anyone or anything any "good?" How is writing "good" poetry better than writing "bad" poetry? What effect (if any) does bad poetry have on the world?

Sometimes I feel loaded down with too much intellect. I believe in the intellect. I love the intellect. But sometimes philosophy is a rock in my stomach.

I feel best when the rush happens (as romantic as that is). When the giant swells of sounds invade and bits of philosophy emerge.

I need ferocious. I need ferocious humbling. Violence. Rough strife. Not neglect of the intellect, but a good whipping.

Madness to expel the ego. Not madness as ego as personality as genuis.

I need the lion over the camel.

My lion keeps going into hiding.



Popular posts from this blog

poets reading poets

There are on A now: Andrews, Antin, Apollinaire, Ashbery

A project from the Atlanta Poetry Group. Check it:

The Poetry of Tao Lin

Another Ireland by Robert Archambeau

This review really hit it for me. I recently read Maurice Scully's _Livelihood_ and Geofrey Squires _Untitled and Other Poems_ is on deck (I love that baseball term. It is baseball, right?)

I think this is from The Nortre Dame review, but I found it via goofle (I mean google).

Another Ireland: Part Two
Maurice Scully, The Basic Colours. Durham, UK: Pig Press, 1994.
Geoffrey Squires, Landscapes and Silences. Dublin: New Writers' Press, 1996.
Catherine Walsh, Idir Eatortha and Making Tents. London: Invisible Books, 1996.

By Robert Archambeau

I began the first half of this article (Notre Dame Review #4) by mentioning some of the limits to the legendary hospitality Ireland has shown to its poets. If you arrive in Ireland from any point of departure outside of Eastern Europe, you will indeed find a public far more willing than the one you left behind to grant poets the recognition all but the most ascetic secretly crave. However, this hospitality has never extended to Irish poets w…