i think poetry is like a knotted muscle close to the spine, or an energy blockage.
reading it is a way to massage, to rehearse or release the blockage.
a form can be a pose or cast, as in yoga, a temporary hold in which to rehearse knots.
ideally / when the energy flows freely, completely, there are no words at all and the posture of life is subsided.
science-kitchen
toaster is back on the old
one-side-only trick
even tanning : intervention
touching
he switches it off at the wall
when she digs for pieces with a knife
fly in the element
safety catch
feel a city runs no matter what
note
world's end is at the back of this (we), and i have eavan boland in mind (indoor urban nature)
threnody
i've had this word in my head since this morning, without knowing what it means. i think i had a sense of cough syrup or singing in mind. it's 3.44am and i woke up thinking i had cancer, rehearsing ideas for poetry lecture next week, etc. just looked it up: a song of lamentation, lament for the dead.
i've just had a cup of cocoa and a bowl of sliced banana in soya milk, and a pear. about an hour ago i got up feeling thirsty (all that wine in the soho restaurant with jane crying about ucl wringing the life out of her) and had a glass of pink grapefruit juice and a slice of mum's fruit cake. the cake seemed too sweet and i think the sugar has woken me up.)
snake blisken
is the other name i've got running around my head since talking with eric on thursday night about the french poetry gig on tuesday. christophe singing snake plissken but i remembered blixen. i had to look that up as well, it is kurt russell in escape from new york. should watch that again. still feeling peckish.
