Delighted to see so much controversy and commentary for a change, in contrast to the usual smug silence! Ah! I'm goan pee myself! hahahahahha! 1]now my take is this. the various anonymads are one person pretending otherwise. 2}friends or former lovers of the various authors they espouse and dig 3] or former lovers and simply gaga-eyed readers. Dig! Next! Bukowski was a pissass alcoholic whose literary judgement means nothing. there aint no such a thing as what this jackass calls pomo poetry. what a load of crap that sort of terminology is anyhow. either the bloody thing works or it dont, either it rhymes or not ,either its cool or its not. frig@!!@##@!!#@ when it comes to music no one dickies around like this! cheers! Blooggers!!!! Pisses herself leaving !
O a final thought, what the hell does unmetred prose mean? what a load of shit! read something else besides your bloody boring self! Cheers really.! I love it when people get going!
The gallon bottle rolled with the stop, messing around since it happened once more. The short fall to the one thickness in meeting, is in their minds, the telling. A single sentence written in the sand; a finger for one word, a stick for the next, and so on, until the entrance of the thought became at some length the writing dug and done. Comfort the slightly older.
Some waiting alteration to make odd trips. Its other retreat tended empty by meaning to record silly stays of retrospective. So much for say and then, these clattering local stops between span. Nearly in chorus, hesitating the comparison to eating certain leaves, blaming entrance on tendency.
Dear Sheila Murphy, I was away again in Poland this time, but had no time to read your works. But I heard the news about the poet Creeley dying and when I read this text of yours, I thought, she must be talking about him. But then I thought, perhaps I ought to make this at the blog I made for you__ turning out it was your birthday the day it came into being, but you know, sadly, or fatefully, I lost my passport, I mean the password to that thing. so it sits in outer space, a lost tribute to your poetry. My english has improved since I last wrote to you. But now I am writing and think, but no this cannot be so, to say a poem is written for one man to one woman, or vice versa, a woman to a man, only, is this not false, and it's not what I learned from my professor _ the one or two I learned from were both great ones, and most humble, I suspect your poem is like a blanket that speaks another simile to the speech you raise to the sky with your poetry. I think perhaps I am becoming the reader born for your work.Am I losing my head? other poems now make me sleepy, their predictable sentences seem the same. Yet I will not say that, because truly, why compare the to the other. I had one teacher, who said to me, if poets are generous to each other, it is a sign of neurosis. But though he read in a more sonorous way than anyone I have heard since, he was not the most rich or intelligent of my teachers. I suggest your poem is part of the greater moving identity of North American poetry that it connects and links secretly too all of them. and this is a singular but universal radiance. So merci as always.
I have been away on a business trip, checking out some very important mechanisms which will allow me to further certain interests I have in a number of concerns which relate to the commercialisation of art. You will have to forgive me if my English is not very well expressed, but I am not of this land of America.
I am writing to you from a space which is orangy and purple, but not distressingly so. There are also other tones of colour in my immediate vicinity which would be explained as citrus or cream in decorating magazines. I want to tell you that I wish to make contact with the annonymous person who has become a fan, as I too am a supporter of your work, although in a type I cannot express to well, due to the poorness of my language commands. Hopefully, by swimming with your poetry I will clutch what is necessary for a getting well with my usage of english, but until that time Ms Murphy, I must only be wanting to tell you in stumbleing ways.
being this beingthis amateur of Sheila Murphy, the American poet, and now a cruel cutting comment from some American ? Wherefore? Writers are unkind, but worse are fellow readers. None are more cruel.
forgive me for being something less than a hateful coward, but a lover of her poems. http://anonymousreader.blogspot.com/
No mon Jean Jeanete, Je suis un fan de Ms Murphy avec vous/tu? mon amis? Please absolve me of mistaken making, but I am not well with english, unless I am slowly taking and reading dictionary as write, which is not at now, as I am in a busy to go shopping with my lover, who I cannot name for fear of partner distressing and doing foolish actions such as crime de passion.
I no want to be hurting you, only to become part of Ms Murphy supporters and encouragements so her beauty in words can proudly display itself unfettered and garner recognition deserving of such genius.
I must hurry to exit, as I have just heard my lover come and if they found out that Ms Murphy was my true dwelling on then it may be possible that inflame will occur, so I must bid adieu until I return from where the goods are stocked for therapy.
because you are such an ignorant person who chooses to mock my own efforts I have made a complaint to your own very kind Ron Silliman. This man, unlike you , is not one to mock those from different countries. you think because my english is not so good, that I cannot read? since you mocked then me too I can be cruel. That comment I made is in the top of the blog of Mister Silliman. So, I will tell you_for sure no one in my country would write a book of you, but about Sheila Murphy, some will.
I am in shock and hurt with what accusing is occured. I too am not of America and am struggling with learn to english. Maybe you should stop to worry too much and chill, after all artists are all as one underneath and in the eyes of god
I was frock pert and a quid avec ave recusant was occurred.I two was not of your Amerique . Stuggled to learn too your America.English was not myfrock? Stop much after all worry artists are of learn? english god?Maybe is not the word of learn? Not the word of worry? not the word of artist. underneath was the
suddenly saying no (yes) to the algae. and still the pink coral spine.
these worms are safe nobody will harm these worms today i'll put them in a bowl and take them out to the garden and make a little underground apartment for them.
you know Ralph Richardson as a middle-aged man I see him with a kind of shadowy totem growing from his right shoulder
its just an old film its really some kind of lamp in a doctor's office a big specialized lamp, like a doctor uses.
beyond most breath a mist of elemental sentence fractured home narration bindweed part forsworn part hairline in a minute honey lambast sleet pitting the windows against driving sunshine matterhorned in on the lithe bone stricture
anyway you get that it was raining snarls and she eluded hypo-conversationalist would-be openings it seemed best just to starch the mood and say things for eclipsed new record bordering on camisole and resurrection minted from the raw spawned hemline
now forelawns eek their way out of the neighbor's point of view the case price of a dowager's commitment braces us each to exude more hexagram than thought pints to a person beside prep it's not just Monday anymore craned neck equals one's obligation
tagged by young breath cleats and fine lawn image the game that everyone a must-see turned tantrum under house arrest erosion sanctifies a furtive kind of mesh a lean-to plunked next door to depth perception maybe anybody can as easily build do-it-yourself worship and draw lots
Hello again Ms Murphy. I have just been to Jean Jenete's site and read hurtful comments by Jack, asking what is to be happening? To him Ms Murphy I said it was not right he say hurtful things to Jean, who like me, is just a simple fan of you.
Reading your work, I am struck by a sense of the lyric wishing to escape from the strictures of Langpo, and urge you go with experiment on this idea, after all, what is poem but that which is flowing over a river bed. Like graph frozen plotted moment which never can be repeated. And frozen is Frost unfolding as it go, not knowing one to next what will appear up at the page. At least I try and think similar to this when I have that Bob Frost head wearing as I write.
But you must accept my sorriness Ms Murphy, for I am only poor scribbler who wants to join up with you, as I can undertand direction which I see you in.
there was something I've been meaning to say of times lost freedom forgotten passages undone
Get a Google Poem - Patterns - Pantoum Compiled 4/18/2005 3:58:57 AM GMT
Ever dream in the time to come But the idea of human Are not only forgotten - But there's something Culture. not for the fact that I've It all, --William Shakespeare "There will come a time
Are not only forgotten - But there's something The past. Flop-eared, you might say. - I've It all, --William Shakespeare "There will come a time As Clinton's accounts of his first, - Is there something
The past. Flop-eared, you might say. - I've Adults are missing out on. I've recently been researching As Clinton's accounts of his first, - Is there something My expectations to the point where they've
Adults are missing out on. I've recently been researching Friends with Jenny forever, and until tonight, My expectations to the point where they've Marianne Moore came to mind several times as
Friends with Jenny forever, and until tonight, Chappaquiddick had not been forgotten, after Marianne Moore came to mind several times as My sight has been hit 1401 times? Something
Chappaquiddick had not been forgotten, after God must be dependent on logic, or there is something My sight has been hit 1401 times? Something Hasn't been added - I've been hiding
God must be dependent on logic, or there is something Is There have been a few times when, Hasn't been added - I've been hiding In the forgotten past. it pained me
Is There have been a few times when, Been these past three days because That's In the forgotten past. it pained me And I've forgotten much of the effort it took - Norfolk
Been these past three days because That's Cause sudden, unexpected death. The truth is, And I've forgotten much of the effort it took - Norfolk Of our of rejected test passages, we discover that "in
Cause sudden, unexpected death. The truth is, Been fixed - so I've been reading Of our of rejected test passages, we discover that "in You'll prove it? They say there's a
Been fixed - so I've been reading In conclusion I'd just like to say there must be something You'll prove it? They say there's a And Gunn had both lost their Spike as a candidate, while
In conclusion I'd just like to say there must be something Culture. not for the fact that I've And Gunn had both lost their Spike as a candidate, while Ever dream in the time to come But the idea of human
I have Oompa Loompa legs beneath my black/white skirt I see them prodding away at the pavement reflected in windows and so on. It's a little mournful; in private imaginings my legs reach from the ground right up to wherever they need to be and they take me with them and I am protected and loved because my legs are fantastic but windows at night don't lie. I have Oompa Loompa legs, so when the man with a face like a snowball peers up my black/white skirt on the stairs I'm [sighingly] a little bit grateful for his condescension.
On the walk Rochelle mentions blue light against a line of palm trees in the northeast valley that it works a little like the French procedure that directs the eye
+
Charlene has been released to light I didn't know that she was ill or that the struggle lasted months she has a child thirteen a child fourteen in cold country motherless as she was motherless that young
+
Rochelle and I take several fresh white grapefruit from from the grove for morning we were young only a moment before, when all pieces began to fall in place, and now
we put together stories previously shrink-wrapped and then put away
it's always early in the day regardless of the clock we're optimistic and believe there is a lever to be reached and turned for change
+
what matters is the filled place beneath our fluency where every language means what no one says we talk into the night when daylight has already taken shape and we will wake to find it
gradually the days repeat themselves with and without the given frame we polished and reworked to fit this story any story that would come
what matters is the filled place beneath our fluency where every language means what no one says we talk into the night when daylight has already taken shape and we will wake to find it
On the walk Rochelle mentions blue light against a line of palm trees in the northeast valley that it works a little like the French procedure that directs the eye
+
Charlene has been released to light I didn't know that she was ill or that the struggle lasted months she has a child thirteen a child fourteen in cold country motherless as she was motherless that young
+
Rochelle and I take several fresh white grapefruit from from the grove for morning we were young only a moment before, when all pieces began to fall in place, and now
we put together stories previously shrink-wrapped and then put away
it's always early in the day regardless of the clock we're optimistic and believe there is a lever to be reached and turned for change
+
what matters is the filled place beneath our fluency where every language means what no one says we talk into the night when daylight has already taken shape and we will wake to find it
gradually the days repeat themselves with and without the given frame we polished and reworked to fit this story any story that would come
(W) right through
She falls released by the lever of frame polished daylight
gradually filling motherless language
where every fluency is a valley that works procedures like french palm trees against night shapes
Child morning pieces fall direct into blue valley grapefruit groves working the eye line to the cold fresh country
Dear Sheila Murphy. I will comment on your new verses soon on the blog dedicated to commentary about it. what I do is copy the pomes to that blog and comment on them there. I have added earlier comments in the archive. I must say I was not surprised to see you had written a poem about the Pope. For some reasona form of spirituality suits your poetry perhaps more than anyone of this generation of cynics and cruel bargainers of love. I remain a reader even if I made the specious claim in one posting that I was a writer like yourself.
I go to the gym to watch the O.C., resenting, of course, the full stop in that name forcing my sentences to an untimely end but if I think it I don't show it.
Nor do my other Sisters of the Stairmaster, leaning forward at the shoulders although it must be bad for the rotator cuffs, headphones stuffed into their ears
mostly clean white iPod eAr bUds. I should know. I have the same.
Last night the girl next to me in the sweater of one of the colleges confessed she was just wasting time.
Oh Lord, how I loved her accent. I wanted to interrogate it to make a poem. But, like the buttresses of muscle in your arm (I can name most of them, and work the bigger ones into something rounder & harder) that skill softens if you don't use it.
black or
in some abyss
informed
by variable threads
the doubt expanding
would penumbra
blake's conclusion
or schemata
become some stigmata
without culture
where homo religio
rust-bound
and trapped
must awaken
to a total physics
turbo
turban
beyond words
as if
pons-clio-ourobouros
whatever incapable statements
to recoil
the music of "next" marks
now encumbered
this infinite mother
or political clock
your name is written in numbers
and the painful
swelling of eyes
where sand and pupils
proliferate
in the sea of schools
All those fighting. All those deaths. All those barrage of cannonballs. All those trampled chewed-up mud. All those fierce resistance. All those hand-to-hand. All those guns. All those orders. All those bizarre instructions. All those unpardonable laxity. All those sick and tired of war. All those Wellingtons. All those Neys, Napoleons. All those morale at the bottom. All those outnumbered. All those committed the first error. All those with a bit of luck. All those blamed. All those while everywhere rain continued to fall.
Thomas the experi- mental linquistically innovative lyrical poet -sighing at the reading window where no wolves prowl - is beating his poetic wings to crush and bend language flapping in the sing song dust of chaos that scrapes outside of lingo normal's door.
And the timbre of his doppleganger - an oil throated story teller - tells in speech gap narratives how fragmentary life whispers linear trad syntactic sound redundant, whilst here in parliament bank mermaid accurate pieces testify to the sweeping ferocity of slam multiple adornments in car picture garlands driving on street world sheet roads
running to roll on bronze wine ships which hulk along white foam ribbon under star dark pin prick skies then roll off upon a sea outside of language.
Into the terminal herding area of a wet crust soggy heaven where test card olympians stare through blue ripped yellow depths and forge grammatically odd sculptured poems in smithies of disruption which poise and swim on rock top tables littered with OAP infinities;
gagging to laugh and gurgle at the filter jelly film packets with owl panel corner cracks sweeping colour friendly hair clutch boxes into needle murmers.
Smirking repeatedly as the head's breath inhales insect windmills, grinding into particles of moment the dreams we rinse when unconsciousness creeps; sleeping off the full glob of life that's been shrewed through the sieve, mixed and shrunk whipped to the consistency of blurred paint then thrown out of kilter until the faint trace of an outline stirs and makes identification of word packages dumped in the cauldron at the warehouse of shifting contexts
dissolving you I we or them unofficial legislators whose technology problem is vision compressed 'n driven into a nascent flash of immensly creative capacities radically affecting past methods because
"easy"
does not do it anymore
"hard fun"
is the future says Seymour the mis- chief and mysticism guru who brought hi tech to learning under the edict of Seamus
now stroking his palm clamped face with ideal fingers designed to tame in a dazzling dance the irrational from biting back
There will be no difference to how This is heard. There will be no swell From a photograph to follow, or the sound Of my voice to bring out family members Who haven't been heard from in years. There will be those still around While this was written, but they will have No idea they were here, continuing To watch what it is they do, until they go away For a time from being here. There will be no Time away from knowing there is something Other you could be doing. There will be no one To remind you of this, until eventually this ends And sentiments are asked to return entertained.
(3) Comments:
Synonymous not Anonymoos!
1]now my take is this. the various anonymads are one person pretending otherwise. 2}friends or former lovers of the various authors they espouse and dig
3] or former lovers and simply gaga-eyed readers. Dig!
Next!
Bukowski was a pissass alcoholic whose literary judgement means nothing.
there aint no such a thing as what this jackass calls pomo poetry. what a load of crap that sort of terminology is anyhow. either the bloody thing works or it dont, either it rhymes or not ,either its cool or its not. frig@!!@##@!!#@ when it comes to music no one dickies around like this!
cheers! Blooggers!!!!
Pisses herself leaving !
O a final thought, what the hell does unmetred prose mean? what a load of shit!
read something else besides your bloody boring self!
Cheers really.! I love it when people get going!
respond with intelligence and thoughtfulness? is that so hard to do?
cheers to all, hks
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