Continuing my imagined, one-sided dialogue with Alan Davies. I think Davies’ poems are often lush and exquisite:
And then the weepings
start to wail
all over the pale green bodices
Yet why can I never agree with anything he may say about poetry itself? It is always strange when this occurs. I have recently read several articles from Davies containing quotes which I simply cannot fathom. Why, for example, does there exist in some L=A=N=G=U=A=G=E writing wierdly ingenuous claims regarding REALITY ITSELF. Ingenuous because of the movement’s apparent purposes. Weird because of its members’ manifest astuteness, subtlety, and perspicacity.
“If somebody has written some poems and you read some of them you can tell pretty much right away whether they concentrated on the poesie or the life” - Alan Davies.
Of course, you cannot. This is patently absurd.
(Ern Malley, meet Araki Yasusada).
This world is Real. Press the fruit to your lips. It squashes and becomes “else”, but does not for this cease to be Reality.
Who here is speaking?
It is only in hidings one’s construction in unconstruction that one can hope to build the spiraling referential Edifice.
Each one in his prison, and dissolution the Key. Slip through the bars.
"Actually, we are all Romantics!"
"I was surprised to hear this. But then I realised: it was true."