luka

Well-known member
You can't live in a world of pale shoulders and heaving bosoms. It's unhealthy in a man of your age. Leave the 19th century please.
 

Corpsey

bandz ahoy
I'm more primed than ever to appreciate them cos I'm balls deep in Eliot ATM

I don't understand what the hell he's on about and worse still

I don't know if I'm even SUPPOSED to
 

Corpsey

bandz ahoy
Stuck Auden reading Auden on Spotify while I was doing he ironing or something and

I think it's more useful hearing poetry you don't understand than poetry you do, in terms of understanding the primal appeal of it, on the level of rhythm and sound.

Poetry is more like music than mathematics, and is incantatory, I'm only fitfully able to understand this.

Picked up Ezra P's literary essays today and he recommends any aspiring poet seek out poetry in language they can't understand, as that way they can hear the rhythm and sound of the language without the sense obscuring it.

Pounds parody of Milton ("the abominable dogbiscuit of Milton's rhetoric") is perfect here : "Of Virtuous sire egregious offspring great!"
 
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luka

Well-known member
Pastiche dawn swells to crescendo of startled bird cry in the quick embers of ulterior reward.
Has it come to this? The breathless cadence twining anti-clockwise around the banister.
Aeroplanes throb promise and we go with them, unstable in the upper air, buffeted by the
crocheted planes. Up here we begin to feel a giddy kind of happiness , the mastery of thing,
golden as a sunbeam.
Fidget at cross-purposes. Unwind the riddle, now inspect the residue.
So far so good. Haywire at this frequency scrambled at regular intervals. Other information
latticed throughout our own. Cross the wires.
Feed the loop in. Piece it. Sequentially the story goes, did this, that, something happened.
A screw of perfect time.
 

luka

Well-known member
A biscuit of forebearance. The other mirrors us, almost mockingly, till we realise our intelligence is shared, common property. All conceit is grudgingly foregone. Grisly counterpart in the anonymous laundromat, feeding tokens into the machine.
It thinks while we sleep and then we exchange roles.
 

Corpsey

bandz ahoy
Pastiche dawn swells to crescendo of startled bird cry in the quick embers of ulterior reward.
Has it come to this? The breathless cadence twining anti-clockwise around the banister.
Aeroplanes throb promise and we go with them, unstable in the upper air, buffeted by the
crocheted planes. Up here we begin to feel a giddy kind of happiness , the mastery of thing,
golden as a sunbeam.
Fidget at cross-purposes. Unwind the riddle, now inspect the residue.
So far so good. Haywire at this frequency scrambled at regular intervals. Other information
latticed throughout our own. Cross the wires.
Feed the loop in. Piece it. Sequentially the story goes, did this, that, something happened.
A screw of perfect time.

I actually really liked this

How far I've come, how far I've still to go

Is that you, is it?
 
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Corpsey

bandz ahoy
And realising why some swear words are so potent

'FUCK'

a fricative 'f' (a consonant sound that is created by constricting the vocal tract, causing friction as the air passes through it) to open, which you can really extend by softly biting your bottom lip and then

can't really find out re: 'k' other than it being a 'voiceless velar stop' but obviously you can feel it coming from the tongue and the throat

and there's a similar thing going on with 'shit' - the extendable 'sh' through the teeth followed by the intensely articulated 't'

I was really breaking through into the DMT dimension here I wonder if it was the acid
 

Corpsey

bandz ahoy
A soft air fans the cloud apart; there comes...

This must have annoyed Luka coming right after he and woops discussing pound

In wafts the stench of the 19th century (although I still love the horses wings beating the twilight to flakes of fire)

P.s. wasn't all that late 19th century stuff awful, the miasma of fey maidens perfum'd in petals and Guinevere and what have you? Pre-Raphaelite Joss stick smog. Like the neo classicism in painting at the time, like the fresh leaves of the Renaissance and romanticism going mouldy on the forest floor... Out of the mould sprang modernism. (Is it any wonder Eliot's early poetry so determinedly nauseating and violent? His weird ass temperament aside)

I suppose the novel was the most forward thrusting artform in that period, what with Flaubert Tolstoy Chekhov Dostoevsky...
 
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Corpsey

bandz ahoy
My view of language is bound to my accidental and uncherished career as a copywriter. Poetry is going to help me escape it because it helps breed disgust for the vacuous mechanical language of advertising.
 

Corpsey

bandz ahoy
You see a fair few people reading books or kindles on the tube but for the majority most of what they read is presumably advertising, so the copywriters have unacknowledged power.

Gimcrack puns. Studied informality. FORMAL informality
 
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