Code is like a poem; it has to follow certain structural requirements, and yet out of that structure can come art. But code is art that does something. It is the assembly of something brand new from nothing but an idea.
Source: Gizmodo
I find that my interactions with students demand what the artistic process demands—reativity, compassion, awareness, and hard work. My students inspire and humble me. I learn from them just as much as I teach them. I do see teaching as an integral artistic process in itself.
Mmmhmmm…
Source: bigcitylit.com
My poetry speaks to spiritual yearnings and seems to question religious yearnings. In writing poems, I find myself searching for new discoveries about the human condition and spirit. There seems to be something far greater than myself guiding my desire to create, though I personally would not call that greater thing “God.
Maya Pindyck - Poetry Society of America
Today, I found Maya Pindyck via Narrative Magazine. Currently exploring further.
Source: poetrysociety.org
Billy Collins on TED— ‘Everyday moments, caught in time’ (by TEDtalksDirector)
Particularly fond of ‘Forgetfulness’.
Source: youtube.com
As poetry teacher or mentor, I’m curious about the value of these roles. Is it merely a money-spinning exercise? Will I help my students become better poets? Will all this teaching benefit my own writing? These questions feel important because I’m not in the business of teaching an exact science. Rather than help students arrive at evidence-based truths, I’m encouraging them to invent personal truths and to spin these truths into poems; rather than encourage logically deductive thought that achieves a point of greater certainty, I’m promoting an inquiry into uncertainty that generates greater uncertainty.
Daljit Nagra on teaching poetry — The Guardian
I’ve been challenged to think a lot about how I teach poetry recently. I’m not doing as much direct teaching in schools as I used to (although I still do have my hand in) and I’m being more selective about my teaching engagements. But I’ve been leading an adult course online for the poetry school since the beginning of the year, and I’m doing a lot of work supporting other poets as they develop their teaching practise…
Source: Guardian
I’ve a friend who says, “Treat anything mechanical
as if it’s just about to break.”
I’ve a feeling broken-hearted
he’s talking about himself
in relation to his ex-wife,
but I don’t tell him that. She called me break the news
just before she left him. “Breaking up” was her phrase,
as if we were all broken promise still in grade school.
“I’m leaving,” she said, “For good.” I pictured him exactly
where I knew he was at the time—in mid-schuss
breakneck on a mogul-filled downhill in Vail.
He wouldn’t be back for two days, and had no idea
it would be to a broken home. And then,
no note, on the kitchen table or anywhere.
No red box on the wall: IN CASE OF EMERGENCY
BREAK GLASS.
Note to self: define instruction set and consider this poem as the basis for a writing challenge. Yes.
Source: rattle.com
…if we didn’t have that means of communication, in fact, we’d still be living in caves, but still, a lot of people are just surprised to think that language could have any function other than being about something. But sometimes—well, like me; when I was a boy, I began to think that there was something missing there. You could read Scientific American and it would explain String Theory but it was talking about it. And what poetry is engaged in, the kind of language it’s engaged in, is not the language of aboutness, it’s engaged in the language of isness. You’re not trying to point to something out there, and talk about it, you’re trying to actually put it right on the reader’s fingertips. The prose in a biology textbook is trying to tell you about the frog; the poem is trying to turn you into a frog. It’s trying to do the very difficult thing of trying to give you a sense of frogness. When you’re using referential prose, the ontological—excuse me for using that word, but the ontological experience and meaning of the thing is always dead to you if you’re just talking about it. There’s a big difference between telling somebody how much their investment has made over the year and putting them in the seat of a new Ferrari and letting them touch the leather and smell the new car and put it in first and feel that rush of power as they go out of the parking lot. I’m sorry, I don’t usually talk about Ferraris because I couldn’t afford one myself. [Fox laughs] I was talking with a friend the other day who owns one. But referential prose, expository prose, which dominates our minds, not only dominates our minds but actually brainwashes us into believing that’s all language can ever do. It can only point to things; they’re dead to you but you know about them. So poetry actually has to compete with that and it’s very hard to do because people whose minds are trained to process expository prose then are stymied when they come to a poem. And it’s not that the poem doesn’t want you to learn something but it wants you to learn it by seeing it and smelling it and tasting it and knowing the weight of the thing or whatever the ontological physical reality of the thing happens to be. So that’s a huge difference. And I think the word ontology is important there because it’s a radically different mode of being. Poetry’s job is to produce in the reader an order of being utterly different from the order of being that he is possessed by with ordinary explanatory prose. It’s a huge difference and it’s an important difference too because if you try to write a poem and you write it entirely in explanatory referential language, you’re going to get an absolutely dead poem.
I have been a Buddhist long before I started writing poems and I think as far as perception is concerned, Buddhism has had a major impact. My meditation practice made observing objects “as they are” a lot easier and this has helped in the avoiding the younger writer’s tendency towards canned or cliched phrases like “rolling hills”, “deep blue eyes”, or “shattered heart”, for example. Practicing Zen made it natural for me to question whether those hills are really “rolling”, or that perhaps those blue eyes are not very deep at all, maybe they’re hollow or crystalline, perhaps they resemble a mine shaft studded with jewels, a sea of lilacs? What I am saying is that there’s a danger in falling into these easy and common descriptions and by stripping the object of its very name, we can begin to see it in a more clear and unique way. When we remove an object or idea from the relative nature of language, we can see how stunning it really is all by itself, naked and fully present; we can see, at last, that an elephant is big only when it’s next to something small.
Essentially I believe that everybody’s life involves this sort of dualism. Rationality and poetry are just as much part of our daily lives as liquid crystal watches and sunsets.
Source: andreagalvani.com
Oh, yes,
let’s bless the imagination. It gives
us the myths we live by.
‘On the Meeting of Garcia Lorca and Hart Crane’— Philip Levine.
I listened to a lot of Philip Levine and Robert Hass while pulling Breaking Silence together. At one point, I had a playlist of various readings on rotation. Now that Breaking Silence is out, I’m easing back into a writing schedule, and Levine still holds pride of place at the top of my reading stack. Currently (re)reading The Simple Truth, in which the poem the above quote is take from is contained.