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Happy National Poetry Day. Here is a poem I really like. It was written on a poster at Housing Works. No one could tell me who wrote it. I wrote it on a piece of paper and hung it near the kitchen sink. The ink has totally faded on that, and this image is the only record I have of the poem. It’s v. inspirational to me.

Happy National Poetry Day. Here is a poem I really like. It was written on a poster at Housing Works. No one could tell me who wrote it. I wrote it on a piece of paper and hung it near the kitchen sink. The ink has totally faded on that, and this image is the only record I have of the poem. It’s v. inspirational to me.

"This Living Hand" by John Keats

This living hand, now warm and capable
Of earnest grasping, would, if it were cold
And in the icy silence of the tomb,
So haunt thy days and chill thy dreaming nights
That thou wouldst wish thine own heart dry of blood
So in my veins red life might stream again,
And thou be conscience-calmed—see here it is—
I hold it towards you.

"This Living Hand" by John Keats

This living hand, now warm and capable
Of earnest grasping, would, if it were cold
And in the icy silence of the tomb,
So haunt thy days and chill thy dreaming nights
That thou wouldst wish thine own heart dry of blood
So in my veins red life might stream again,
And thou be conscience-calmed—see here it is—
I hold it towards you.

Just received proofs of Dutch translations of some of my older poems,

heatherchristle:

so stuffed them into Google Translate to see what kind of a party came out. It’s a good party, I think:

"The Handsome Man"

To walk through the woods I found you
tied to a tree and half unconscious.
My god what was your beautiful,
focused on your sword like swords do.
In an effort to bring you back to life I stepped
seven times around the tree in my
matchless squirrel fur coat. you seemed
distracted, though, by the parade
of lepers in the past trudge sang of
Oh woe is me, my feet feel cold,
I find my tons nowhere.
I took off my coat and dressed
like a rooster with a cruel eye
and taxable plumes. There you are, Manfred!
told you, while evaporated cords.
You put me under your arm
and was prepared to do something to kill while I
struggled to do with my mouth. your pants

Very pretty. “Taxable plumes” sounds very American, like “pork futures” or something.

heatherchristle:

Today is my birthday. In an unplanned coincidence, today is also the day that Molly Brodak (this month’s wonderful editor of Everyday Genius) posted the longest poem I have ever written, “Disintegration Loop 1.1,” for William Basinski. (You might find it easier to read if you actually download the PDF. Then you can go full screen, which I like.)
I wrote the poem over several weeks, waking each morning and playing this video of lower Manhattan, recorded during the last hour of daylight on September 11, 2001. The music is a “decaying pastoral loop Basinski had recorded in August 2001.” While the music and video played across the room, I sat in a chair with my paper and wrote for the full hour. Or rather, I sat for an hour and wrote when it occurred to me to do so.
It was not like writing any other poem.

heatherchristle:

Today is my birthday. In an unplanned coincidence, today is also the day that Molly Brodak (this month’s wonderful editor of Everyday Genius) posted the longest poem I have ever written, “Disintegration Loop 1.1,” for William Basinski. (You might find it easier to read if you actually download the PDF. Then you can go full screen, which I like.)

I wrote the poem over several weeks, waking each morning and playing this video of lower Manhattan, recorded during the last hour of daylight on September 11, 2001. The music is a “decaying pastoral loop Basinski had recorded in August 2001.” While the music and video played across the room, I sat in a chair with my paper and wrote for the full hour. Or rather, I sat for an hour and wrote when it occurred to me to do so.

It was not like writing any other poem.