‘Having started out as a painter I’ve never lost the sense that I’m working on something that has a tangible existence, separate from my own, and that what matters most isn’t content but the expression of it.’
A stillness which is very nearly mineral
Keeps insisting upon the essential
Loneliness with which this light is filled.
And they lie at the edge of light alone
at the place where snow never hits
Kahlo embraces Diego’s barebone
and they emanate heat.
Pale, sentinel, their stone wings
Open behind them, they stood about
As though the afterlife meant
To impress itself upon us
Smith frames: Tomoko Uemura in Her Bath
The mother cradles Tomoko, her misshapen daughter.
Light through a dark window.
A post-modern pietà.
“The infinite mistake of Pittsburgh does not take from the fact that the set of photographs is among my finest.”
The only connection I felt to the mills
was to the children of a generation of flayed men
on unemployment, the storefronts boarded…
James Wright: Depressed by a Book of Bad Poetry, I Walk Toward an Unused Pasture and Invite the Insects to Join Me
The old grasshoppers
Are tired, they leap heavily now,
Their thighs are burdened.
I want to hear them, they have clear sounds to make.
Sometimes it’s painful to watch a group of poets trying to work a room as if they were politicians. The AWP conference, as the wag put it, is comprised of 15,000 introverts pretending to be extroverts.