Donegal Fiddle Playing

http://donegalfriends.blogspot.com/2011/12/donegal-fiddle-players.html

Shelfari

Come look at me! I’m on Shelfariiii.

http://www.shelfari.com/evankerry

Happy reading!

again DFW?–>WTF?

as if Tupac had a literary cousin?

this is pretty horrible writing. Oh, you didn’t ask me?

http://www.newyorker.com/fiction/features/2011/03/07/110307fi_fiction_wallace

ppp

pair

pear

pare

Ingrid Rowland gets it right…

about Cool Hand Lucas Cranach the Elder

http://www.nybooks.com/blogs/nyrblog/2011/jan/15/worldly-temptations-lucas-cranach/#

on John Kinsella on J. H. Prynne, briefly.

Is attempting much, or being accused of it, simply for the forced sophistication of doing it, too much to ask for? Regard this excerpt from John Kinsella on J. H. Prynne: “It is a strong example of the Prynne lyric in which tensions between external social, political, and economic forces and interior, personal, emotive, and reflective experience come into play. The tone is almost of a love poem, yet there is a darkish irony at work as well.”  I will take the world and my own world and grind them together, for the smell of grinding gears?

When a piece of poetry is ground up then wound down it is painstakingly obvious to one. Why can’t we champion effortlessness, or the supple surface of serenity?

Here is the poem Kinsella is referring to.

Under her brow the snowy wing-case
      delivers truly the surprise
of days which slide under sunlight
          past loose glass in the door
      into the reflection of honour spread
through the incomplete, the trusted. So
      darkly the stain skips as a livery
of your pause like an apple pip,
      the baltic loved one who sleeps.
 
Or as syrup in a cloud, down below in
      the cup, you excuse each folded
cry of the finch’s wit, this flush
      scattered over our slant of the
          day rocked in water, you say
      this much. A waver of attention at
the surface, shews the arch there and
          the purpose we really cut;
      an ounce down by the water, which
 
in cross-fire from injustice too large
      to hold he lets slither
                                            from starry fingers
      noting the herbal jolt of cordite
and its echo: is this our screen, on some
      street we hardly guessed could mark
an idea bred to idiocy by the clear
      sight-lines ahead. You come in
          by the same door, you carry
 
what cannot be left for its own
      sweet shimmer of reason, its false blood;
the same tint I hear with the pulse it touches
      and will not melt. Such shading
of the rose to its stock tips the bolt
      from the sky, rising in its effect of what
motto we call peace talks. And yes the
      quiet turn of your page is the day
          tilting so, faded in the light.

 

 

To a Certain Person

Why is it, in the verse I write,

That never do I mention you?

It is so that, myself, I might

From yours be ever absent too.

Clement Marot

trans. Norman R. Shapiro

2002

Illuminated Manuscripts

this would seem like a book worth knowing:

http://www.archive.org/stream/illuminatedmanu00bradgoog?ui=embed

Helen Vendler is def. fer sure the hack I suspected; or, why Kay Ryan is a ltd., pseudo-poet.

To read a review by Helen Vendler on Kay Ryan’s new dreck, is tantamount to being lowered into a vat of acid that will not kill one, only scald till one’s eyes bleed. Who selected this most unworthy poet as the Poet Laureate? I should have his job/head delivered to the local morgue for inspection. Anyways, Vendler selects snippets of Ryan’s writings and panders them with glee. I swear I could not make it through this ghastly review, without the usual self-doubt accorded slop, of a substance less viscous than plain air. Suffice to say a review hardly worth anyones time.

http://www.nybooks.com/articles/archives/2010/dec/23/art-flamingo-watching/

Farnsworth fills the hours with flowery lang…

http://online.wsj.com/article/SB10001424052748703766704576009540219126236.html?mod=googlenews_wsj#articleTabs%3Dcomments

New from the publisher Godine is the new manifesto of communication. If only we would all expound as if we were classically educated. Besides, I’m not. Maybe an autodidact, but never conceived of the possibleness of the classical rigors. 

This review is interesting for the tidbits that it extracts. It is almost a full-length commercial for the book, though isn’t that what most reviews strive for in the end?