Readings

Don Mee Choi gave a wonderful PEN Ten interview.

What is the responsibility of the writer?
The Brazilian writer I admire, Clarice Lispector, said that she insists on not being a professional, to keep her freedom. Like Lispector, we writers should insist on staying amateurs to keep our freedom. Only thing I’ll add to this is: get out of debt. It may not be possible for most of us though. The majority of my time goes to paying off debt. As Foucault pointed out already, confinement is no longer needed, for we are disciplined by time/work. For me, time is not money. Time is freedom

Time is freedom. Amen.

Read some of her brilliant poems.

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Asymptote is possibly my favorite journal. Today it introduced me to these poems by María do Cebreiro. It sent me down a rabbit hole of dialogic possibilities in poetry. Poetry monologues really well, but these…

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Louise Bogan was brought back to my attention due to a poetry prize named in her honor. Her poem Medusa is, I think, praise and indictment of the stilling powers of art. I need to find her collected and a couple weeks in a very quiet place.

“And I shall stand here like a shadow
Under the great balanced day,
My eyes on the yellow dust, that was lifting in the wind,
And does not drift away.”

flarf is dada outsourced

but I hadn’t heard any of the flarfiliated poets mention it. I googled the above insight (is all googling a protoflarf moment? Probably) and found this intelligent essay by Rick Snyder that confirms I am clever if not original.

I may have encountered flarf previously and forgotten it, but it was brought (back?) to my attention because Pen published The Revolt of the Peasant Girls by Anne Boyer. The poem in turn repulsed and intrigued me, but through that see-saw fun I began to know that Anne Boyer was a Kansan. So I protoflarfed her.

I like Anne Boyer. I am going to ask her out. By which I mean I am going to ask her to submit something to The Habit. That’s the journal I am starting. I don’t so much bury a lede as make of it a horcrux .

Sarah and I used to collect poems by the ‘gentle spambot‘ which were those strings of words at the end of spam messages. Unlike flarf poems, the bot’s work was primarily sincere. It was innocent, Anne Boyer. Language sucking itself in a world that was all womb.