The image is from artist/poet Peter Sacks’ recent exhibit at the Paul Rogers 9W/ Gallery in New York. Poems and newspaper clippings appear in various paintings almost fossilized onto the canvas.
A recent post by head Lemon Hound Sina Queyras on Harriet, “The Lines We Carry,” took a moment to list some of the lines of poetry she returns to again and again. The post and comments section was an outpouring of the right words in the right order. A thoroughly enjoyable bit of blogging.
It was a busy week for this particular blogger. My heart got heavy at the idea of trying to put together a coherent five-hundred word update. Some weeks are just more fragmented. Some weeks are lived in various lines. I’m always surprised that no matter how quickly one pinballs from place to place, from assignment to assignment, from nine-to-five or three-to-eleven or eight-to-ten-to-two-to-four-to-seven-to-midnight, the books we read, the net we surf, and the conversations we have and overhear always seem to yield their little gems. Language as oasis. Forget the long-haul. These are the lines heard or read this week, poetry and otherwise, that got me through this week. Period. I’d encourage people to add to their own in the comments section. It’s Sunday, folks. Let’s take a moment to rest and catch up over coffee:
My girlfriend just breathed on the window of my workplace.
-my friend Eric Foley’s facebook status update
In some regions, history is buried
in the ground like broken glass;
you cut your feet without knowing it.
In some towns almost everyone’s feet are bleeding.
-from the poem”More Blood” by Sue Sinclair, in the new issue of Event.
“Just to be an All-Star year in and year out, that’s a special feeling, but the fact that it’s in Dallas is a bittersweet thing,” Bosh said before the Raptors faced the New York Knicks. “Sweet because I get to play in front of my home crowd, bitter because everyone wants tickets.”
-Toronto Raptors Forward Chris Bosh, as reported by Brian Mahoney of the AP
One is always about to look at a film one hasn’t seen before.
-John Ashbery, in response to an NYU student asking what the favourite films he returned to for inspiration were.
Give me rage.
Not this dull torpor,
this weary body moving down the aisle of pet foods.
I have no cat, no dog, no bird.
-from the poem “Single woman on the death of her mother” by Heather Cadsby, from her collection Could be, recently published by Brick Books.
Never have I seen an angel fly so low.
-Poet and friend Jeff Latosik, via facebook, on the poutine perogies served at Toronto’s Intersteer Pub.
Nick Thran is the author of one poetry collection, Every Inadequate Name (Insomniac Press, 2006). A second collection, Earworm, will appear in 2011 with Nightwood Editions. He currently lives in Brooklyn, NY.
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