SATURDAY POETRY SERIES PRESENTS: CARL PHILLIPS

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CHROMATIC BLACK
By Carl Phillips

Of the many things that he used to say to me, there are two
I’m certain of: You taste like a last less-than-long summer afternoon
by the shore just before September
; and

You’re the kind of betrayal, understand, I’ve been waiting for,
all my life
. When did remembering stop meaning
to be lit from within—bodily—
and the mind, briefly flickering
again out—wasn’t that forgetting? Somewhere
abandon’s still just a word to be turned away from, as from a man
on fire. Remorse, I think,
is not regret. How new, as in full of chance, the nights here
still can seem to be,
if you keep your eyes closed. Here’s a lullaby:
“No more bondage, no triumph either, no more the bluing waves
of shame…”


(Today’s poem originally appeared in Ploughshares and appears here today with permission from the poet.)

Carl Phillips is the author of twelve books of poems, most recently Silverchest. He teaches at Washington University in St. Louis.

Editor’s Note: Carl Phillips is a master of the-line-that-blows-you-away. “You’re the kind of betrayal, understand, I’ve been waiting for, / all my life.” “Somewhere / abandon’s still just a word to be turned away from, as from a man / on fire” “Remorse, I think, / is not regret.” This poet speaks the truth, rewriting the world in a way we all wish we could. I, for one, am humbled.

Want to read more by and about Carl Phillips?
Poets.org
The Poetry Foundation
Q & A on Smartish Pace

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NICOLE LOMANGINO

Tanabata

NICOLE LOMANGINO @STANFORD UNIVERSITY ART SPACE

by Anthony Torres

Now at Stanford University Art Space is the work of Nicole Lomangino, an artist whose personal translations and representations of geishas articulate a longstanding interest in Japanese art and myths.

The work seems deeply inspired by traditionalUkiyo-epaintings and woodblock prints of the Edo Period in Japan (late 1600′s-1800′s), which depict history, landscapes, theater, and pleasure quarters. The word ukiyo or “floating world” refers to impermanence and fleeting beauty.  The original subject(s) of ukiyo-e were activities and scenes from city life and the realms of entertainment — kabuki, courtesans, geisha — divorced from the world of the mundane. The prints were disseminated and affordable because they were mass-produced.

In translating her subjects — geishas — Lomangino has developed a strategy of blending figures painted with watercolor and gouache with a collage technique that utilizes handmade Yuzen papers to visually construct her subjects’ bodies, hair adornments, and kimonos, in a complex architectonic dance of textural patterns, form, and color.

In so doing, she creates works that depict solitary figures formed by reassembling and juxtaposing the painted images with the cut paper, so that the faces hover in a orchestrated sea of ebbs and flows that are seamlessly fused in a unitary whole.

In Tanabata, for example, a solitary figure floats against a cloudlike powder blue-grey background.  The figure’s face, left forearm, and hands emerge from a billowy mass of pictorially simulated fabric.  In her left hand, she holds an upraised streamer that appears to be blowing in the wind across the top portion of the image, above her head.

The patterns in the cut paper vary and include birds, which add to the allusion to in-flight travel or movement. This is reinforced by a cut streamer tied to the figure’s wrist, which similarly mimics the curvilinear flowing “fabric” overhead.

Here, the rendering of the geisha is anchored by the pale white face/head of the subject.  The face is crowned by her black hair, which is adorned with a curvilinear hair ornament above her forehead.  Below her chin and at the shoulders is the bulbous kimono-like garment formed from Yuzen paper that has been cut and pasted so that the edges demarcate and enclose the sections that constitute the folds of the “fabric” portions of the garment. 

The intersecting lines that delineate these sections serve as devices for the dynamism created by the careful arrangement of the compositional structure and juxtaposition of patterns in the paper, creating tension, movement, and depth within the picture plane.

As in much of the work, the figure occupies an autonomous space that is at once nebulous and self-contained, formed from a formal strategy and mode of expression that characterizes many of her works — the conjuring of traditions and images from the past to enunciate aesthetic concerns in the present.

Looking at these images, one finds it necessary to reflect on Lomangino’s intercultural identification with her subject and the historical sources condensed in the works, and to wonder how the aesthetic strategies she utilizes comment on a history of globalization and relate to her personal experience(s).

In complex way, her choice to rearticulate images associated with the Japanese Edo period speaks to histories of European colonization that disseminated aesthetic ideas through cultural dominance, and in so doing created contact sites of intercultural exposure, exchange, influence, and transformation; and also how those contact histories are mutually generative of a range of aesthetic translations. 

Perhaps more importantly, the work alludes to a personal aesthetic as being socially imbricated in the world, and is thus emblematic of the social character of art. By extension, it addresses the way people are formed through processes of acquiring, forming, and asserting subjectivities, and conversely, how personal identity is impacted by trans-cultural global realities.

This seems particularly relevant here, because these images speak to the idea that individuals and art works are relationally situated and constituted through cultures, people, and objects external to their being.

–Anthony Torres

 

 

 

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SATURDAY POETRY SERIES PRESENTS: TONY HOAGLAND

tony-hoagland

THE COMPLEX SENTENCE
By Tony Hoagland

The kind Italian driver of the bus to Rome
invited her to his house—she was obviously
hungry—and gave her sandwiches
and raped her.

All those years ago—she smiles
while telling it—contemptuous,
somehow
of her younger self,

who drags behind her like a can.
Grammar is great
but who will write the sentence that includes
the story of the damage to her soul

and how she thought her bad Italian
was at fault, and
how it took a month for her to say
the word for what had happened
                                             in her head?

But that’s why
we invented the complex sentence,
so we could stand at a distance,

making slight adjustments
of the harness,
while following the twisty, ever-turning plot:

the loneliness of what we did;
the loneliness
of what was done to us.


(Today’s poem originally appeared in Ploughshares and appears here today with permission from the poet.)

Tony Hoagland has published five books of poetry and prose about poetry with Graywolf Press.

Editor’s Note: Isn’t language amazing? How it unfolds, at once telling a story and creating the safe/dangerous/charged space that story can exist within? Tony Hoaglan is a true master of the sentence. He understands its complexities, knows how to manipulate the malleable material with his pen. How complex the sentence needs to be that can carry the weight of today’s message, how artful the poet who brings the sentence and the story to life.

Want to read more by and about Tony Hoagland?
Friday Poetry Series on As It Ought To Be
Poets.org
The Poetry Foundation

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SATURDAY POETRY SERIES PRESENTS: SPRING!

Fotor0503142835New York’s Jefferson Market Garden in full spring bloom; the editor enjoying the same.
Flower photos by Sivan Butler-Rotholz. Editor photo by Frank Ortega.


Poems & Excerpts For Spring:

For winter’s rains and ruins are over,
And all the season of snows and sins;
The days dividing lover and lover,
The light that loses, the night that wins;
And time remembered is grief forgotten,
And frosts are slain and flowers begotten,
And in green underwood and cover
Blossom by blossom the spring begins.

                          - Algernon Charles Swinburne (1837–1909)
                            Atalanta in Calydon (1865)


Loveliest of trees, the cherry now
Is hung with bloom along the bough.

                          - A.E. Housman (1859–1936)
                            A Shropshire Lad (1896)


The month of May was come,
when every lusty heart beginneth
to blossom, and to bring forth fruit;
for like as herbs and trees bring
forth fruit and flourish in May,
in likewise every lusty heart
that is in any manner a lover,
springeth and flourisheth in lusty deeds.
For it giveth unto all lovers courage,
that lusty month of May.

                          - Sir Thomas Malory (d. 1471)
                            Le Morte d’Arthur (1485)


A little Madness in the Spring
Is wholesome even for the King.

                          - Emily Dickinson (1830–1886)
                            No. 1333 (c.1875)


(Today’s poems are in the public domain, belong to the masses, and appear here today accordingly.)

Editor’s Note: Why? “For winter’s rains and ruins are over,” and the trees are “hung with bloom[s] along the bough.” Because “that lusty month of May” is here, and there is “[a] little Madness in the Spring.” Because everywhere I turn there are bright colors, sweet sights and smells of spring blossoms, and new life overtaking what was once the winter earth. Because it is spring! Nature is putting on her party dress and blessing us with glorious, beautiful spring. And what better way to welcome this lovely season than with poetry?

Want to read more spring poems?
Edna St. Vincent Millay gives the month of April a run for her money
Poets.org
The Poetry Foundation

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SATURDAY POETRY SERIES PRESENTS: ARLENE KIM

AK_0919

By Arlene Kim:

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(Today’s poems originally appeared in Diode and appear here today with permission from the poet.)

Arlene Kim grew up on the east coast of the U.S. before drifting westward. Her first collection of poems What have you done to our ears to make us hear echoes? (Milkweed Editions) won the 2012 American Book Award. She lives in Seattle where she reads for the poetry journal DMQ Review and writes poems, prose, and bits between.

Editor’s Note: The biography of Prince Sado is fascinating, but there is no entry into this (or any) history quite like that of a poet. Arlene Kim has latched onto this fascinating tale, and in her telling she not only invites us into a history, but also makes that history entirely new, entirely her own. Who was Prince Sado—in both his life and death—and how does he live anew in the imagination of the poet?

Want to read more by and about Arlene Kim?
Arlene Kim’s Official Website
Milkweed Editions: Video
DMQ Review: Poetry
Buy What have you done to our ears to make us hear echoes? from Milkweed Editions
Buy What have you done to our ears to make us hear echoes? on Amazon

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4/19/2013

empty_boston_lockdown_thg_130419_wblog

4/19/2013

by

James Tadd Adcox

[The following is an attempt to make something out of a pre-narrative moment. The words come from news programs, radio broadcasts, online stories, tweets and text messages intercepted on April 19, 2013, between the hours of approximately 8 am to 2 pm; the arrangement is my own.]

***

I had acting class with him, he did wrestling, he seemed very normal. It almost seems weird to call him nice now after all of this.

“Apparently he was a very popular highschool student, people said he was very personable—”

“A sweetheart, someone said.”

“These were not men with any mental health issues?”

We have seen an astonishing turn of events.

We hear that he is trapped in a house in Watertown. We hear that he is making his way to New York. We hear that there is someone who may be him down on the ground, no it is not him, they let that one go on his way.

“His teacher called him a real sweetheart.”

Boston police just tweeted “Police seeking MA Plate: 316-ES9, ’99 Honda CRV, Color – Gray. Possible suspect car. Do not approach.” I know reports have been going back and forth about whether they found this car or are still looking for it.

“This man had blast wounds of some kind on his body. Is that correct?”

“He had multiple traumatic injuries.”

This is where the press conference will be held, this is a live shot you’re seeing there.

His whereabouts, as far as we know, are unknown.

We are trying to piece together from the very little information we have what motivated these two men, and there is very little. Geography, let’s go over that right now. “For lack of a better term, a hole in the body.”

We have been told that the FBI have additional video that they did not release.

A teenager said he is scared to go outside after he was portrayed on the Internet and on the front page of the New York Post as connected to the deadly Boston Marathon bombings.

We instantly want an explanation for what happened. I think it’s fair to say that we know very little about these individuals… Because there’s so little information and it’s so sketchy, people tend to over-inflate what information is there. Very often the people who suffer humiliation themselves are not the ones who commit terrorism, but rather it’s people acting on behalf of those who have suffered.

“We stand by our story. The email was emailed to law enforcement agencies yesterday afternoon seeking information about these men, as our story reported. We did not identify them as suspects.”

“I am going to be scared going to school. Workwise, my family, everything is going to be scary.”

“Of course we’re ashamed.

“Somebody radicalized them. But if that happened, it’s not my brother. Who spent his life bringing bread to their table. Fixing cars. He spent his life fixing cars. No, my family had nothing to do with that.

On lockdown, but having a cup of tea. I am more upset that there is a manhunt for a teenager and little hope he will come out of it alive than anything else. Poor kid. His brain is not fully formed and his brother is dead and he is probably so scared.

We hear that in order to reassure the public, the upcoming London marathon will have forty percent more police officers. We hear that the last ten years of war have given us better technologies to deal with this sort of situation, Jesus. We hear the sound of helicopters, we see a reporter who apparently has nothing better to do than to point out helicopters.

We have heard that they had military experience. That is what we were told. We have heard that there was already a Muslim woman attacked. There is so much yet we do not know.

“I just wanted my family be away from them. I say, what I think was behind it, being losers, and not being able to settle themselves. And hating whoever who did. They immigrated, they immigrated, they immigrated, and they, they received asylum. I say I teach my children, and that’s what I feel myself, I love this country and I respect this country. This country that gives us chance to be human being, to feel human being.

“And he kept talking about how this had nothing to do with Islam, how this had nothing to do with Chechnya, that these were two losers, and that we shouldn’t take it too seriously. And what was interesting too was what he wouldn’t say, he said they may have been radicalized, but not by my brother.”

We are told that there is going to be a controlled explosion in Cambridge, due to quote an abundance of caution.

“I don’t know, I don’t know, I’ve seen them as kids. No, they’ve never been in Chechnya, this has nothing to do with Chechnya.

A group of men and boys, holding a sign: BOSTON BOMBING REPRESENTS A SORROWFUL SCENE OF WHAT HAPPENS EVERYDAY IN SYRIA. DO ACCEPT OUR CONDOLENCES. THE SYRIAN REVOLUTION KNRC KAFRANBEL 19 4 13

Any attempt to draw a connection between Chechnya and Tsarnaevs—if they are guilty—is futile. They were raised in the United States, and their attitudes and beliefs were formed there. It is necessary to seek the roots of this evil in America. The whole world must struggle against terrorism—that we know better than anyone else. We hope for the recovery of all the victims, and we mourn with the Americans.

“He put a shame on our family. He put a shame on the entire Chechnyan ethnicity.

The man they are trying to find became a US citizen. Became a citizen last year, on 9/11. A lot of the witnesses you’ve been describing also describe a change in personality. And a lot of times, the, the individuals who have become radicalized, it can, that can happen fairly quickly.

Investigators have to ask this question, what are the motivations of a young man like that?

They have an ‘accomplice’ in custody also, and are sadly saying the suspect seems ‘stubborn’ (duh. He is a teenager.) and therefore may not come out peacefully. Arg.

“Those that were able to make this atrocity, are only losers.”

“There’s no fear, there’s no madness, there’s no nothing.”

Who surrounded these people, who motivated them?

He says his world-view is Islam, his goals are “Career and money.” According to law enforcement, he is acting in a way that indicates he does not want to be taken alive.

***

James Tadd Adcox’s work has appeared in TriQuarterly, The Literary Review, Barrelhouse Magazine, and Redivider, among other places. He is a founding editor of Artifice Magazine/Artifice Books. His first book of fiction, The Map of the System of Human Knowledge, is available from Tiny Hardcore Press.

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SATURDAY POETRY SERIES PRESENTS: CATHERINE PIERCE

Katie Pierce--MSU Creative Writing professor--author portraitPhoto by Megan Bean

BECAUSE I’LL NEVER SWIM IN EVERY OCEAN
By Catherine Pierce

Want is ten thousand blue feathers falling
all around me, and me unable to stomach
that I might catch five but never ten thousand.
So I drop my hands to my sides and wait
to be buried. I open a book and the words
spring and taunt. Flashes—motel, lapidary,
piranha—of every story, every poem I’ll never
know well enough to conjure in sleep.
What’s the point of words if I can’t
own them all? I toss book after book
into my imaginary trashcan fire.
Or I think I’ll learn piano. At the first lesson,
we’re clapping whole and half notes
and this is childish, I’m better than this.
I’d like to leave playing Ravel. I’d like
to give a concerto on Saturday. So I quit.
I have standards. Then on Saturday,
I have a beer, watch a telethon. Or
we watch a documentary on Antarctica.
The interviewees are from Belarus, Lima, Berlin.
Everyone speaks English. Everyone names
a philosopher, an ethos. One man carries a raft
on his back at all times. I went to Nebraska once
and swore it was a great adventure. It was.
I think of how I’ll never go to Antarctica,
mainly because I don’t much want to. But
I should want to. I should be the girl
with a raft on her back. When I think
of all the mountains and monuments
and skyscapes I haven’t seen, all the trains
I should take, all the camels and mopeds
and ferries I should ride, all the scorching
hikes I should nearly die on, I press
my body down, down into the vast green
couch. If I step out the door, the infinity
of what I’ve missed will zorro me across
the face with a big L for Lazy. Sometimes
I watch finches at the feeder, their wings small
suns, and have to grab the sill to steady myself.
Metaphorically, of course. I’m no loon.
Look—even my awestruck is half-assed.
But I’m so tired of the small steps—
the pentatonic scale, the frequent flyer
hoarding, the one exquisite sentence
in a forest of exquisite sentences.
There is a globe welling up inside of me.
Mountain ranges ridging my skin,
oceans filling my mouth. If I stay still
long enough, I could become my own world.

(Today’s poem originally appeared in Diode and appears here today with permission from the poet.)

Catherine Pierce is the author of The Girls of Peculiar (Saturnalia 2012) and Famous Last Words (Saturnalia 2008). Her poems have appeared in The Best American Poetry, Slate, Boston Review, Ploughshares, FIELD, and elsewhere. She lives in Starkville, Mississippi, where she co-directs the creative writing program at Mississippi State University.

Editor’s Note: Today’s poem speaks to the troubled inner workings of the Writer. Writer with a capital W because the poet speaks for writers at large. For the crippling fear that lies at the heart of my new mantra: Everything you want is on the other side of fear.

Catherine Pierce gets it. And she says it better than most, despite her willingness to “toss book after book into [her] imaginary trashcan fire” for the frustration of “every poem [she’ll] never know well enough to conjure.” The road to creation is paved with becoming “so tired of the small steps” because “There is a globe welling up inside of [you,]… oceans filling [your] mouth.” Yes, and yes, and amen.

Today’s poem is dedicated to Jenny Stella. Because. And then because, again. As for me, I have shared the poet’s struggle in my own art, in comic form, though admittedly with far less eloquence.

I should also note that I have had the pleasure of sharing Catherine Pierce’s work on this series before, and am continually drawn to the poet’s unparallelled way with words.

Want to read more by and about Catherine Pierce?
Catherine Pierce Official Website
Poems in The Kenyon Review
Poems in Diode volume 6 number 1
Order The Girls of Peculiar
Order Famous Last Words

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