Thursday, January 26, 2006

"Ship of Foods"

a gurgling prior to dawn
so long without this
of a pallid mask
our singular tag foists on all
rain raining down
and its long
i can only catch sounds from
slow unfurl
which is good for my dark also
into thousandfold ways of grokking
all still claiming
and burnishing
only a singular way is so
a gray road i soon will prowl

1913, a journal of forms.

"Among the things that will not finally suffice, a critique of readership ideologies takes its place as well."

"Out of the hoar-mist tangled and frail..."

"It had four or five-hour ceremonies, comprised mostly of music (including all of a Love Supreme) and a sermon that was all about politics."

"What I think would be of the most benefit to World Literature would be poets' forcing themselves to write 40 words or more a day on some poem."

Tuesday, January 24, 2006

Pamuk wins! (via B*yond th* B*yond)

"In World War I, they went around kicking dachshunds on the grounds that dachshunds were "German dogs." They did not, however, go around kicking German shepherds." --Molly Ivins


"Once a story-in-progress has thoroughly established itself as SF [e.g. the presence of technology recognizable as such], what single piece of set-dressing might transform it into fantasy? Teresa Nielsen Hayden was once asked this question, and gave the best answer I've heard yet. 'The Holy Grail,' she said." --Patricia Ni*ls*n Hayd*n, intro to Starlight 2 (1998)

"And zig-zagged through the grey-green mountain sage" --Alfr*d Noy*s

Monday, January 23, 2006

'We are the poppies of this wasteland...' --Baki

Spin daddy.

"On a scale ranging from the profitable to the harmful, poetry was classified as neither profitable nor harmful." --Th* Unr*adabl* Shor*s of Lov*

"Mine eyes are dizzy with the arrowy hail" --Arnold

"History is like weather, not like checkers." --R*b*cca Solnit

"That is what we all need: a twentieth way, something that reveals all the secrets of an art to us, some secret skill only a handful of us can have." --G*of Huth

Sunday, January 22, 2006

   "The Common Grave

Last night beneath the foreign stars I stood
And saw the thoughts of those at home go by
To the great grave upon the hill of blood.
Upon the darkness they went visibly,
Each in the vesture of its own distress,
Among them there came One, frail as a sigh
And like a creature of the wilderness
Dug with her bleeding hands. She neither cried
Nor wept; nor did she see the many stark
And dead that lay unburied at her side.
All night she toiled, and at that time of dawn,
When Day and Night do change their More and Less
And Day is More, I saw the melting Dark
Stir to the last, and knew she laboured on."

--Sydn*y Dob*ll, in: Th* Spasmodic Car**r of Sydn*y Dob*ll (M. W*stwat*r, 1992)

"If the Orpheu group had continued (three of them died very young, including Sá-Carneiro), then there might have arisen a whole system of heteronyms invented by writers other than Pessoa." (via wood_s lot)

"Sleep deep, good eel, in your perverse marine" --St*v*ns