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Thread: Poetry

  1. #91
    Join Date
    Apr 2008
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    4,807

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    I've been reading through this over the last week



    And it seems to me that I'm finally beginning to get an inkling of what poetry's all about. I've never really been able to hear the 'music' in poetry that people talk about, but this book is helping me to understand what that music is - the metre, the rhythm, the tempo and the meaning, all working together at once, like harmony, melody, rhythm, dynamics and tempo.

  2. #92

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    That's a really useful book, I always recommend it.

  3. #93
    Join Date
    Oct 2004
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    11,109

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    I admire your commitment to self improvement corpsey.

  4. #94
    Join Date
    Oct 2004
    Posts
    11,109

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    L’Extase de M. Poher
    (by J.H. Prynne)

    Why do we ask that, as if wind in the
    telegraph wires were nailed up in some
    kind of answer, formal derangement of
    the species. Days and weeks spin by in
    theatres, gardens laid out in rubbish, this
    is the free hand to refuse everything.
    No
    question provokes the alpha rhythm by
    the tree in our sky turned over; certain
    things follow:
    who is the occasion
    now what
    is the question in
    which she
    what for is a version
    of when, i.e.
    some payment about time again and how
    “can sequence conduce” in order as more
    than the question: more gardens: list
    the plants as distinct
    from lateral
    front to back or not
    grass “the most
    successful plant on our
    heart-lung by-
    pass and into passion sliced into bright
    slivers, the yellow wrapping of what we do.
    Who is it: what person could be generalised
    on a basis of “specifically” sexual damage,
    the townscape of that question.
    Weather
    of the wanton elegy, take a chip out of
    your right thumb. Freudian history again makes
    the thermal bank: here
    credit 92°
    a/c payee only, reduce to
    now what
    laid out in the body
    sub-normal
    on grass etc, hay as a touch of the
    social self put on a traffic island. Tie
    that up, over for next time, otherwise there
    is a kind of visual concurrence;
    yet
    the immediate body of wealth is not
    history, body-fluid not dynastic. No
    poetic gabble will survive which fails
    to collide head-on with the unwitty circus:
    no history running
    with the french horn into
    the alley-way, no
    manifest emergence
    of valued instinct, no growth
    of meaning & stated order.
    we are too kissed and fondled,
    no longer instrumental
    to culture in “this” sense or
    any free-range system of time:
    1. Steroid metaphrast
    2. Hyper-bonding of the insect
    3. 6% memory, etc
    any other rubbish is mere political rhapsody,
    the gallant lyricism of the select, breasts and elbows,
    what
    else is allowed by the verbal smash-up piled
    under foot. Crush tread trample distinguish
    put your choice in the hands of the town
    clerk, the army stuffing its drum. Rubbish is
    pertinent; essential; the
    most intricate presence in
    our entire culture; the
    ultimate sexual point of the whole place turned
    into a model question.

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