Attention Span 2010 – Patrick Pritchett
Julie Carr | Sarah—Of Fragments and Lines | Coffee House
Beyond beautiful—a hymn of sorrow and joy and Carr’s most intimate and powerful work yet—deeply touching, and miraculously alive in its invention.
James Belflower | Commuter | Instance
The severe angularity and audacity of postmodernity. Now, would somebody please publish “Friends of Mies van der Rohe” already?
Norma Cole | Where Shadows Will | City Lights
Norma Cole’s work is continually alert to the tiniest nuances and to the possibility for the vastness of inside that moment. The actual turns of thought, a deep thinking into language as event and the world as it seen and felt and registered continually. Objects are not merely named, but multiply-mediated. What calls our attention is seeing: and seeing into and through language. The poem never a comment, but an invitation to become enmeshed with its event; neither reductive nor overpowering, but alive to complexity.
Anne Carson | NOX | New Directions
Elegy as etymology, as colportage. But is the whole less than the sum of its scattered parts?
Ingeborg Bachman, trans. Peter Filkins | Songs in Flight | Marsilio
So I gather the salt
when the sea overcomes us,
and turn back
and lay it on the threshold
and step into the house.
We share bread with the rain;
bread, debt, and a house.
Leslie Scalapino | Considering How Exaggerated Music Is | North Point
What would you glean
the long go-away-from-it plan
at hazard, sheer glass over
and the eking out
It would be occasion, return of the others from their something not right
I know, I could see them, moving down the aisle, that there should be
This was the time when the dying brought in their wounded
and the promises of dust
stare back at us
give evidence of our having lived
the wrong questions
Ken Irby | The Intent On | North Atlantic
And for the dreaming, the endless
mode of occurring
as it is, as it could be, as the sleepers
keep murmuring —
for what it means
to stay alive, attuned, a moment
to this otherwise
& the sought-for, disappearing.
Of pure possibility/of the nothing
that may save it
shed of symbol, it staves off
the blighted, and so we go – into night
the blessed, the earthly
what leaks into & wrecks us
never and more singular than loss
across song’s fields, folded. Inside its portals
the old book beckons and we bend
surmised of sorrow, to its rising, it turning.
What dies &
what inherits? What dissipates
and what is remnant?
If the wind is not/if the wind is here and –
its inconstancy, its minglings, its slips of
substance into light and
for beginning is always.