Nomad Ink

Friday, February 10, 2006

windchimes

on a cue from the windchimes the snow moves upward toward the sun anticipating swarms of winged springtime mites. Is there a relationship between confetti and confession, as there is between "book" and "birch"? it seems poetry has ebbed away down thru the fissures of the rocks in my brain as i tend to innumerable stupid workthings and misunderstandings. each one is an opportunity to practice mindfulness and compassion and also its language slips between me and the disinterested contemplation from which independent words emerge. A half-smile on a stone's face is still too tightly framed to set me free. There's a lot of charming reactive hijinx going on on the flarf list, funny and sardonic words are busting out all over, including nada gordon's "Why God, Why?" and a new chick on the block, baroness von flarfinghoven, who's knocked out a rambunctious toon or two. Magee and Sullivan, Gardner and Davis going hogwild in the most endearingly dickwagging way imaginable, tearing it up and burning rubber in an orgy of sticky-fingered creative derivations. But this isn't the way i want this blog to go; commentary upon commentary on flarf. there's plenty of that elsewhere.
corny or not, i do look on this space as a writing space, for my cabin-feverish mind (MN in midwinter) to wander in that meadow to which i can't return often enough. i've got a review of Rachel Blau DuPlessis's newest Drafts coming out in How2, here's a head's up on that. Rachel seems to like it which is always gratifying but also raises questions for me about my motives and the future of my writing. Do i do it to please? for praise? to make "important interventions into the production of poetic knowledge"? to exercise my faculties at large? to ratify, a la descartes, human existence? because one can't do otherwise? b/c if one didn't do it there would be personal suffering for lack of it? writing is what happens in the world, nothing can stop it. the five-letter, four-letter and three-letter words rain down on the downy eaves of the blue house w/ the yellow door, curling upward again toward the sun "half-hid" behind the fabric of the nation, is the rain "excellent" rain. are the words "excellent" words. are they corporate messengers. are they free angels. there they go, horizontally drifting past the window, snowing on the city as it cries in my heart, what is this languor that overtakes the weather with icicle featherlings and thorns of glass?

2 Comments:

  • At 8:32 PM, Blogger mIEKAL aND said…

    why does the writing thru one's life need a reason? let the writing come before the after-thoughts & hesitations, trust the language like an indispensible friend.

     
  • At 3:54 PM, Blogger hyperpoesia said…

    that is sage sage sage advice. sometimes i like to write about writing, and that leads to expressions of doubt that are for me like a halo around writing, the aura of writing, it becomes the writing itself and i imagine perhaps foolishly that i am also writing "for" others who have the same musings or usings but don't even get far enough to write them. indispensible friend, i look forward to seeing you all again, language, human friend, and writing.

     

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