Wednesday, May 24, 2006


"Mosley cannot tell a story because there never is a story; the interruptions are what interest him. He wants to track the orbits of thought, each of which constitutes its own stab at the truth." Mark Rudman describes the writing of Nicholas Mosley, son of the British fascist, Oswald, in his (Nicholas’s) Catastrophe Practice series. Right away, three pages into it, I want to stop reading Rudman’s essay on Nicholas, skip the reading of Nicholas himself, whom I’ve never heard of (Oswald I do know), and go where the interruptions live with the orbits of thought in the land of the stabbed-at truth. I’m convinced that it’s right next door, where I have poached many a poem merely by driving by and waving at the man leaf-blowing his lawn into submission. He wears those dark glasses that airline pilots and state troopers wear and never smiles. Never has grass been clipped so close to the ground. It makes me want to pet it.

Tuesday, May 02, 2006

a poetry

a poetry that doesn't blink when the world/life rears up in all its voraciousness.

a poetry that comes from/goes to feeling, but knows the snares of self-delusion contained therein.

a poetry committed to seeing whatever is real, whatever can stand up to a scepticism as to its (reality's) nature.

a poetry, however private and individual, that knows no experience is either.

a poetry gentle with the gentle, quick with the cruel, uncompromising with those who hide their cruelty under a veneer of gentility or ignorance.

If we have to choose between truth and beauty, let it be truth. But let us look forward to the day Keats thought had arrived two hundred years ago, when they become the same.

A poetry unafraid of ideas or the mind (one cannot see without them), but one that recognizes that "things" can sometimes be ideas. Sometimes; not always.

And, experiment, the new? It's included above, along with the archaic. Not foregrounded; included. "True imagination makes up nothing; it is a way of seeing the world." (G. Davenport)