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The Corruption of the Poetry Foundation

"Kenny Goldsmith was correct in saying that poetry is fifty years behind visual art. Both he and the poetry foundation are, in a certain respect, the vanguard of poetry as it enters a phase wherein its absolute nullity is realized and becomes immediately displaced into these forceful gestures of grandeur which are not too different within the symbolic order from a middle-aged crisis sports car purchase. Visual art assumed the cool smile of complicity decades ago. It’s about time that poetry caught up." (Brooks Johnson)


So what are we, who care, to do?


How do we rise up?


What is poetry and how does it relate to revolution? Of the mind? Of the "spirit?" Of the socio-economic sphere? 


Check out this terrific interview with Brooks Johnson (by Linh Dinh):


poetry foundation and corruption

Vallejo Speaks!!!

The Claudius App is proud to announce the publication of César Vallejo's "Lost" Interview, published in the Heraldo de Madrid in January 1931, recovered, translated, and generously annotated by Kent Johnson. Over coffee with the Heraldo's interviewer (Q: César Vallejo, why have you come here? CV: Well, to drink coffee.), Vallejo discusses precision,Trilce in relation to its predecessors and contemporaries, and a non-extant then-forthcoming volume of poems, The Central Institute of Labor. This is the sole record of the great poet's conversation, and the first appearance of it, unabridged, in English.

from The Grand Tour (second manuscript of travel poetics)

remixed from my journals and notebooks from travel, 18th century travel handbooks, current music on the spin (this one was influenced by Le Tigre), Basho, Herodotus, Buddhism, google sculpting, and of course memory . . . mapping new maps into the present rather than clinging to the past. . . another attempt at an expansive poetics to move away from the constricted mind and ego . . .

this one was re-sampled, re-mixed this morning . . . Milton Keynes and Bletchley . . .



Tossing at night in their own traps. I couldn’t cut a straight line. In this corner of Europe one sees little in the light. An Englishman does not travel to meet an Englishman. In a place that used to be a monastery more than 55 languages are being spoken. We are only looking at the chaise. A man can churl on the sign. You suffer Mon. Dessein. Table tennis at the Bletchley swimming pool. Hot chocolate comes from the machine. The stuffing was coming out of the sleeping bag. It is a dead man’s bag from World War Two. Who sh…

upcoming reading with some fab Croatian and British Poets . . come out if you around in London .

Maintenant Croatia in association with the the Croatian Writers Association April Thursday 26th 2012- 7pm - Entrance Free – at Europe House 32 Smith Square, London SW1P near Westminster / Pimlico tube stations from Croatia: Damir Sodan - Tomica Bajsic Ervin Jahic - Ivan Herceg not from Croatia: Tom Warner - Marcus Slease – Tim Atkins Mark Waldron - Claire Potter – Saradha Soobrayen and more tba… Four remarkable Croatian poets visiting London to read for the very first time will be joined by a half dozen London-based poets to celebrate the new generation of Croatian poetic brilliance which has flowered into the beginning of the 21st century. As ever the Maintenant series strives to promote some of the most striking and diverse poetry Europe has to offer.
www.maintenant.co.uk

from The Grand Tour (in progress)

This is an apology for the Quakers. I have mounted my horse. This is a beautiful picture of a wail. The fire door says keep shut. My interest is to ungain a name. I leave the house to walk the public streets where animals and children disappear. Forced into blocks with blankly confident boys. To display unconsciousness like the lunch hour crowd. To learn the push of age in the crowd’s unconcern. An easy sided gate. I like a dog alone near which I creep.

3rd revision Today I am a Rouged Dowager

TODAY I AM A ROUGED DOWAGER Today I am a rouged dowager. After getting up, I, maid of the paternity lie, will climb on the face, powder on the cheeks and the palm and paint a little rouge. I have come out from the refuge of Bilkent. To break wax to break the oozing from the nose I have covered my face with white cake make-up. Patches of cherry rouge on my cheeks and lower lip. Miles and miles to the stepping stone I am in the hot house with a white kilt. I confuse my lover for the kettle drums beating for Ramadan. I have slept on my rectum at Eski Yeni. The Turkish eye has followed me. A very fat man is repairing the highways. Oh little girl little girl little girl the men here are lonesome too. Looting is a purple pose. The Greeks have called on the saints but the see-saws are rusting. I meant to write east but mis-typed feast. The photons of happiness are scraped from a licking horse. The bark on the trees are forming a painting. This is where I sleep. Ears and hands are hazards. The…

Today I am a rouged Dowager 2nd revision

2nd revision with some splicing/sampling from my own travel notes from living in Turkey. The other versions were from a 19th century handbook of travel.

TODAY I AM A ROUGED DOWAGER

Today I am a rouged dowager. After getting up, I, maid of the paternity lie, will climb on the face, powder on the cheeks and the palm and paint a little rouge. I have come out from the refuge of Bilkent. To break wax to break the oozing from the nose I have covered my face with white cake make-up. Patches of cherry rouge on my cheeks and lower lip.


Is drunk a kind of weather? Grandmother Jean has cut the cards. Miles and miles to the stepping stone. I am in the hot house with a white kilt. I confuse my lover for the kettle drums beating for Ramadan. I have slept on my rectum at Eski Yeni.


Do you think of us as a family? The Turkish eye has followed me. A very fat man is repairing the highways. Oh little girl little girl little girl the men here are lonesome too. 


Looting is a purple pose.The Greeks have called …

Today I am a Rouged Dowager 1st revision

TODAY I AM A ROUGED DOWAGER Today I am a rouged dowager. After getting up, I, maid of the paternity lie, will climb on the face, powder on the cheeks and the palm and paint a little rouge. I have come out from the refuge of Jehol. 
A fortified town, in a wild and rugged mountain pass. 
I have covered my face with white cake make-up and placed patches of cherry rouge on my cheeks and lower lip. Grandmother Jia has cut the cards.  I have been pre-occupied in the hobhouse. With a white kilt and kettle drums beating we are forming a new delightful spectacle. I have slept on my rectum. A man very fat and not very tall with a fine face is repairing the highways. The women here are lonesome too.  I am among the most war-like subjects of the Sultan. The Greeks have called on the saints. The see-saws are rusting. I meant to write east but mis-typed. Fletcher has taken the protons of happiness. A licking horse. A bolt of sick neckties. I refuse to wear a suit. Ears and hands are hazards. The bark on…

listening to Tim Hecker and this came out . . .

TODAY I AM A ROUGED DOWAGERI have been pre-occupied in the hobhouse. Consisting of a white kilt and kettle drums beating we are forming a new delightful spectacle. But for who? I have slept on my rectum. A man very fat and not very tall with a fine face is repairing the highways. The women here are lonesome too. I am among the most war-like subjects of the Sultan. The Greeks have called on the saints. The see-saws are rusting. I meant to write east but mis-typed. Fletcher has taken the protons of happiness. A licking horse. A bolt of sick neckties. I refuse to wear a suit. Ears and hands are hazards. The bark on the animation tree is forming a painting. I’m writing in a shady room of the English consul.

My eyes were hurt by the light. Or crying. They are cruel but not treacherous. Our next conversation was of war and traveling. Between continents and between loves I’m working with two blunt pencils. What will become of the horses in Van? The windmills are squeezed against the mountains…

coming soon . . . hot hot hot . . .

from Dzanc Books:



A Question Mark Above the Sun

Documents on the Mystery Surrounding a Famous Poem “by” Frank O’Hara Expanded Second Edition Kent Johnson Preface by Eric Lorberer Foreword David Koepsell Afterwords by Jeremy Noel-Tod and Joshua Kotin
“At the end of last year, an extraordinary work of detective criticism briefly ap- peared, despite legal threats. Kent Johnson’s A Question Mark Above the Sun (Punch Press) movingly speculates that Kenneth Koch forged one of Frank O’Hara’s greatest poems as a posthumous tribute to his friend. A noir-ish middle also recounts some very funny run-ins with the English avant-garde. Shame on the poets who forced its redaction and suppression.”—Jeremy Noel-Tod, The Times Literary Supplement, including a previous edition of A Question Mark Above the Sun as one of its 2011 Books of the Year
What you have in your hands is a kind of thought-experiment. It proffers the idea that a radical, se- cret gesture of poetic mourning and love was carried out by Kenne…