Marcus Slease is a (mostly) surrealist, absurdist, and fabulist writer from Portadown, N. Ireland and Utah.
His latest books are The Spirit of the Bathtub, Play Yr Kardz Right, and Rides.
He lives in Madrid, Spain.
Visit his website for more info:
Adam is a mighty fine poet and translator . His translations of Grzegorz Wroblewski, A Marzipan Factory, were just published by Otoliths. He has the touch with Wroblewski's translations into English. I dig it. No doubt, if read, many more will dig it!!! Tender elliptical Kafkaesque dramatic situations spun oh so well!!! witty, charming, slender, funny, surrreal, awe-filled, animals, the quotidian reframed and reframed again and again, space age, earth age, ghosts, narrative threads, elliptical strip teasing (did i already say that), razor sharp observations of the natural human world, birds, old age, fucking, not fucking, haunting, hunting, beyond the barbarian/classical divide, ahead of the time cause it's bloody smack dab OF the time not 10, 20, 30 years behind like majority of poetry and art, and so on . . . .
Marjorie Perloff claims it is the best book of poetry she has read in years!!!!
And Grzegorz is also a painter/visual artist. Version 1, one of his paintings, is the …
I have often had a discussion with non-poets and their feelings after attending an innovative event (reading or festival) and they reported a feeling of perplexity. Not because they didn't enjoy the work. Some hated poetry, or at least disliked it, but often really enjoyed the variety of work at an innovative poetry event. No . . . they were asked if they too were a poet and when the said "no, but I enjoy the work" the conversation ended and they felt outed.
It is a silly question but . . . . . . can non-poets attend innovative/experimental poetry events????
Some of these same folks have also mentioned the word "hobby." And I say no way. it is not a hobby. It is a whole way of life. POETRY is not a hobby damn it. Or maybe being a "language artist" is better than the word poet?
If poetry events become a closed club of self congratulation maybe it resembles a hobby.
or perhaps it is a religion.
We need more candour. We need more connections to the other…
in response to a review of Tom Raworth in which the reviewer argues that so-called difficult poetry is anti-capitalist and difficult "modernist' poetry carries more political weight than the movement/mainstream poetry in the UK with its easily summarised themes and conversational speech and so on . . ..the old language school argument . . . and of course modernism consists of more than so called high modernism . . . i don't want to choose between difficult or accessible . . . . there are many kinds of interesting art . . . nice response from Barry
either "accessible" nor "difficult" is a quality with inherent aesthetic value--that is, to state what I hope is obvious, there are good and bad "accessible" works just as there are good and bad "difficult" works (though there might be pleasures that are specific to difficult works that are unobtainable through accessible ones and vice versa). So to speak of accessibility or difficulty as…
what was the fate of the turtle gripping the talons of the eagle? do you miss sauerkraut stew? do you miss the bubbles of Polish beer? before you fall asleep chronicles spray against the white walls of yon mind a pensioner of the void broccoli dust on the night sheets to be like plums in an icebox lazy PUG! my family owned peaches and a dog named Lady when you add up all the sunday roasts I ate many a cow what is the convenient truth? my liver today requires a fresh bleeding copulation:cooperation:community we’ve been tricked into saucey action lately the booze has been scratching my eyelids making tea in my underwear something to eat to clear yr mind something bad inside went away can a vibration alter our ocular visions don’t take the voices for silky gods a kiss on yr molten eyes the lure of mermaids they are waiting in the ether to form propogate only to die and I grant you no wishes my pretty son tell me what you wanna become a union of mammals a mammal republic milk giving fiends
white cheese, tomatoes, fresh bread, orange juice with a drop of wodka
A Marzipan Factory by Grzegorz Wroblewski Seoul Bus Poems by Jim Goar The Story of England by Tom Beaumont James I Too Went to the Hunt of the Deer by Lale Mulder Small Gods by Terry Pratchett Nausea by Sartre Nadja by Andre Breton Gangway 40 (expatriations): http://www.gangway.net/40/index.shtml Cleaves: http://www.cleavesjournal.com/
And I am always trying to think about how to write. As if starting over again. So that I am using different modes all the time and seem to resist doing what I know how to do, resist using modes I may think I have gotten good at. In some visceral way, my feeling is that everything I have written is unsuccessful, and that now, today, as I write, I might find out how to do it right, in a completely different way. Of course I know I never will. Still, I have that feeling--that writing is essentially inexpressible and mysterious, and one is always trying to figure out how to do it and never quite getting there. That there is something absolutely essential to be expressed but one can’t ever quite express it. So it always feels like finding a new way to write, starting completely over again on a new tack.
Like probably all poets my writing comes out of reading, and reading may be a form of writing and vice versa. So I am reading something important to me and then at some point in reading I a…
Adana kebab is sizzling behind me in Sultanahmet a man in an all-white suit gets his shoes shinned I’m skinned he speaks of Kurdish and Armenian symbols animals & patterns Silk. Wool. Silk & wool. Crosses. the azan prayer booms from mosque to mosque in surround sound I move among the crowds of Taksim I run my hands over the Galata tower move through tunnels move through the songs of gypsies EDA is a foreign land a foreign tongue say ghosts the ghost of an idea EDA is not a verdict EDA moves through 20th century Turkish poetry a crossing, a bridge, pronouns are fungible pre-rational pre-Islamic a profanity and a purity there is no sticky tape
eagles search for turtles to drop and crack upon the rocks this is a tangible instant of a pure orgasm cracks in the hands of a moviestream the body of a cracked door sun crackles across this country of mosques dirty scientists gather a genesis of light cracked armies attack the honeycombs how fast the summer passes with drums peons with a rainstorm of rugs and flirts and virgin brides cracks in the muslim masks all the pretty boys just for the hell of it yr cracks lay upon my pillow the body of a cracked nation cracked producer of royal candies a voice in a hammock cracks the trees a cracked lung for penitence you were born and we kept you hungry cracked cats lick yr name
eagles search for turtles to drop and crack upon the rocks this is a tangible instant of a pure orgasm cracks in the hands of a moviestream the body of a cracked door sun crackles across this country of mosques dirty scientists gather a genesis of light cracked armies attack the honeycombs how fast the summer passes with drums peons with a rainstorm of rugs and flirts and virgin brides cracks in this pegan country yr cracks lay upon my pillow the body of a cracked nation cracked producer of royal candies yr boat moves upon cracky sounds
A Marzipan Factory is the most original and enticing book of poems I have read in years. It is Kafkaesque and yet tender, cynical and yet warm, elliptical and yet wholly immediate. GRZEGORZ WRÓBLEWSKI can take the most ordinary of phenomena and then give them the twist of a knife: to “spare” the life of a living organism—a “dry” tangerine for instance—is, from another angle, to forget it. The pleasures and terrors of sex, of age, of the fear of death, of the deceptions of our social life, have rarely been so brutally—yet wittily and charmingly—documented as they are in these short, often gnomic poems, surprisingly well rendered in Adam Zdrodowski’s translation. Grzegorz Wróblewski restores one’s faith in the power of lyric poetry to renew itself. - Marjorie Perloff