Poem: April 1
It is a poem
It is a poem
If the sun is out
and there are leaves
and no bundled tourists
or snow to
hint,
it is a poem in that
you paint the cold
first, or
a bomb’s gone off
just
outside the frame.
It is a poem
If the sun is out
and there are leaves
and no bundled tourists
or snow to
hint,
it is a poem in that
you paint the cold
first, or
a bomb’s gone off
just
outside the frame.
Success For a novelist, means the ability to call one book a failure. For the poet, means you are allowed to be quaint.
I'll be brief: In more than one of David Foster Wallace's works, he features a consumer product used for some reason other than its intended use. I wouldn't call it a preoccupation, but it's approaching motif status: In the long short story
To fall asleep lately, I've been listening to a BBC podcast called "In Our Time," in which the host--the placid, grandfatherly voiced Melvyn Bragg--engages various scholars and academics in discussions of popular history, science, the humanities, and other general curiosities. Subjects include the 30
Picking up the pieces on a rainy Wednesday. I found myself listening to the experimental band The Books the other day, and watched a short documentary about their process. An animating preoccupation that drove the music was conversation—the idea that any juxtaposition is really a discourse. You put one