Skip to main content

getting my feet back

new direction for my manuscript. cleaning it up. finding my feet. forced language in previous versions felt forced. yes. the other versions were false starts. All new now.

Here is the rough draft of the beginning:

Because It Was Corporeal They Did It With Marvelous Sublimity

our minds were not so much closed
as unready
to change our whole view
of how life is constructed (nostalgiac strictures of feeling)

Our memories are kitsched and must be refabulated
(St. Sebastian fucked against a tree with flimsy loincloth)

memories are the absolute denial of the accident
of birth (she tore her lips—this is the sound of the tearing—spread legs—liturgical—popped eyes—light on slanted windows— the midwife carried a glass for measuring blood loss)

what held and what
fell in that
bloodstate

what slapsong gibbers
us into existence

born
through
bloodfolds
life does not begin auspicious

memories fluffed-up

like dandelions

like a dead
tree floating
on a mountain
of water

like stray hairs
on the bedsheets

Comments

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:

http://atlantapoetsgroup.blogspot.co.uk/

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…