HOW TO AVOID WRITING A POEM. 215.2. Decide that the poet you think yourself to be should determine the poems you write. 216.2. At times I’ve avoided pursuing lines of poetic inquiry in order to perform a kind of irrepressible proliferation of new ideas. I am Innovative™, yes? Yet how many times can I quit pursuit before a so-called innovation is just a gesture? Just a special effect? 217.2. I find myself on a Q&A. Another writer asks about how to stop writer’s block. One of my answers: there’s a poem demanding you write it. For whatever reason, you refuse. Thus, that poem is clogging the way for others. Write that poem. 218.2. I believe that. But I resist it. Sure, I tend to know precisely what poem is clamoring for attention. But as if to somehow muzzle it, I imagine I have it worked out already. Writing it is a formality. I know how it must go because I know the poet I am. The tricky thing is, if I tell myself I know how it’s going to be, what I’m certainly going to write, I don’t have to write it because I’ll learn nothing from it. — POEM : Douglas Kearney : Harriet the Blog : The Poetry Foundation
The challenge at Barbican Poets last night was to generate instructions for a new poetic form, write an example poem and share that new form with other poets in the group (the new form doesn’t really exist until a few other people have written poems with it). There was a limited number of copies, and everyone had to take two different forms, so no form would be left unsubstantiated. Beautiful moment: a scrum of poets, each trying to secure the poetic form they were most excited by… #BYP
210. I am in the habit of saying: “Every poem is an opportunity to destroy my career.” 211. When I say it, I imagine completely new work. Maybe I abandon the typographic experiments of The Black Automaton in exchange for a more traditional sonnet crown. Or I leave behind my investigations into manhood for poems about birds. I mean to surprise readers who have come to expect a particular kind of poem from me. I mean to surprise myself as well. 212. I want it to mean that I am not afraid of trying something different, that I am not privileging my previous gestures, hiding behind what I know. 213. But what it doesn’t mean, necessarily, is that I write the poem that demands to be written. You can spend a lot of time not writing such a poem. — POEM : Douglas Kearney : Harriet the Blog : The Poetry Foundation
Roger Robinson at Jazz Verse Jukebox #jvj #vscocam
Via the Avengers.
Found this yesterday— after my last workshop of the day, I stopped in at Forbidden Planet to zone out for a minute. Leafed through a few graphic novels (Avengers, which I was never really a big fan of anyway) and realised I’m so out of touch with the storylines that I have no idea what’s going on these days (who’s the yellow/golden dude with the horn?), but the above panel touched me…
Writing is work. It’s also gambling. Technique alone is never enough. Be without fear. Too much fear and all you’ll get is silence. You have to have passion. To hell with facts! It doesn’t matter how “real” your story is, or how “made up”: what matters is its necessity. We tell stories in order to live. The thing that’s important to me is that you never know. You’re always sort of feeling your way. There is no truth. There is only perception. Stare. It is the only way to educate your eye. And if there are no jobs at the end of it, that’s not necessarily a reason not to do it. —
Found text from Howie Good’s editor’s note for issue 70 of Right Hand Pointing.
The Note - 70rhpissue
The people I liked were those who were able to do something with nothing – painters, writers and photographers. I looked into photography early on and I saw that there were sports photographers who needed an Olympian, fashion photographers who needed a model and war photographers who needed a war.
Cartier-Bresson and Robert Frank and Riboud and those guys – they didn’t need anything; they would just look out the window or go to the garden. In other words, the everyday life situation became a gold mine for these artists, and I gravitated towards the fact that you could take something right next to you and turn it into art or communication. I liked the integrity of journalism but I was always interested in photographs. Photographs didn’t have to communicate a great concept, they could just be — David Alan Harvey (via yes-lukewinter)
How are we to speak of these ‘common things’, how to track them down rather, flush them out, wrest them from the dross in which they remain mired, how to give them a meaning, a tongue, to let them, finally, speak of what is, of what are. What’s needed perhaps is finally to found our own anthropology, one that will speak about us, will look in ourselves for what for so long we’ve been pillaging from others. Not the exotic any more, but the endotic. —
Peter Buwert Research » Blog Archive » Georges Perec – Questioning the habitual
Via Roberto Greco
You must know everything well before you can know what to discard. You must cover pages with material you will not finally put into the book. That doesn’t mean you don’t use it. It is still there, must be there, an invisible foundation which gives authority to the story. The planning done on setting is never wasted. Nothing is ever wasted. If it has been thought through and written, it is still there, in every word which does not mention it. — Dorothy Bryant, on the drafting of fiction (via strangelikeness)
Now, email is a pot constantly boiling over. Like King Sisyphus pushing his boulder, we read, respond, delete, delete, delete, only to find that even more messages have arrived whilst we were pruning. A whole time management industry has erupted around email, urging us to check only once or twice a day, to avoid checking email first thing in the morning, and so forth. Even if such techniques work, the idea that managing the communication for a job now requires its own self-help literature reeks of a foul new anguish —
Hyperemployment, or the Exhausting Work of the Technology User - Ian Bogost - The Atlantic