Here's my beef with poets, and maybe this is specific to Bay Area poets and maybe just to the ones I spend time with, but I'm going to make a grand general statement about poets and you, dear reader, are more than welcome to disagree with me. In fact, please do. We poets (gross generalization) are afraid to express our personal radness for fear of being criticized for being: arrogant, self-promoting, fussy, having diva-like qualities or worst: collaborating with the enemy--Capitalism.
...okay I just realized that I'm talking about myself. I am projecting onto my friends and then extending that projection to others in my social sphere and then beyond to poets in general. Wow, it's really hard to build an argument when you realize that it's based on your own insecurities and neuroses. Shoot.
Still, guys, I want to reassure you (if any of you are struggling with this too) and in doing so myself that there are ways to express engagement, excitement and positive feelings about your work, your community, etc. and still practice the values you hold dear (consideration, kindness, professionalism and a well-balanced ego state, for my part). That last one kind of cracked me up. Well-balanced ego state...that's a good one, but HECK, isn't that something to strive for?
Also, beyond being positive and and excited about our work and the work of our colleagues and friends I would extend this hope of possibility. I'm going to say that it is OK to defend your work. It is OK to be assertive and it is possible to do so without being aggressive. It is possible to practice the values you hold dear and still stand up for yourself and your work. In fact, it should be expected and should be supported.
I have much more to say on this topic and welcome discussion. Please, think about this, friends. I know that I may be projecting here but I also know that I am no alone in this.
Bust out! Get shiny!
Holler.
Wednesday, February 24, 2010
Saturday, February 20, 2010
Try! Magazine
Steve just got up from the couch where we were sitting and reading through my collection of Try! Magazines, each of us with a stack on our lap.
I need to choose a piece from one of these issues to read aloud tomorrow at the benefit for Try at 21 Grand. I have a few ideas so far. In the stack of Trys were a few stowaway programs from The New Reading Series at 21 Grand. It's really so nice. Maybe it's an obvious thing to say and I know that this was probably David and Sara's intention in putting together Try, but as I was reading I honestly felt this sense of continuity creeping in the backside of my head, reminding me that time had in fact passed, something(s) had happened within that time and that I cared about all of it and that it had and currently does mean something to me and here was a record of it in tangible paper form sitting in my lap.
"Oh, I love this one. It's fucking weird."
"What? Gross. This one is super gross!"
"Aaack! This one is gross too."
"Is that the gross issue?"
"Whoa, I really like this. Oh, duh, he's awesome. Ron Palmer. His brain is so weird. It's awesome."
"Oh that's the cover of the record."
"I think it's Candy Darling."
"Here's an email from Dana to David."
"Here's Anne!"
"Is this you?"
"Yeah, that's me!"
"Some things are so beautiful when they're photocopied."
"Yeah"
"Like this one, I can't even tell what it is but it's beautiful."
"I always feel like I'm sucking Brandon's poetry dick but it's just so good."
"Oh, this is Logan. I like that. Reading something you like and then turning the page and thinking 'Oh, I know him.'"
"Oh, you lost me."
"Aaack, boooring."
"I mean what the fuck? I hate it when people sit down to write a poem and they're all 'Okay, it'll be about stars and have the word abyss in it and..."
"I'm such a jerk."
"I like this one. Remember Joseph Mosconi from L.A.? He did this one. It's super weird. I wonder how he wrote it."
"Here's a poem by Dana."
"Oh I love this cover!"
"You got anything good over there?"
I felt like I was looking though a yearbook. These things are striking. They make me feel sentimental and miss my poet friends. Luckily, I will see many of them/you tomorrow. Thanks for being part of my life and having me in yours, all, and thanks to David and Sara for making tangible a very important (and on-going) time in my life.
love,
Lindsey
I need to choose a piece from one of these issues to read aloud tomorrow at the benefit for Try at 21 Grand. I have a few ideas so far. In the stack of Trys were a few stowaway programs from The New Reading Series at 21 Grand. It's really so nice. Maybe it's an obvious thing to say and I know that this was probably David and Sara's intention in putting together Try, but as I was reading I honestly felt this sense of continuity creeping in the backside of my head, reminding me that time had in fact passed, something(s) had happened within that time and that I cared about all of it and that it had and currently does mean something to me and here was a record of it in tangible paper form sitting in my lap.
"Oh, I love this one. It's fucking weird."
"What? Gross. This one is super gross!"
"Aaack! This one is gross too."
"Is that the gross issue?"
"Whoa, I really like this. Oh, duh, he's awesome. Ron Palmer. His brain is so weird. It's awesome."
"Oh that's the cover of the record."
"I think it's Candy Darling."
"Here's an email from Dana to David."
"Here's Anne!"
"Is this you?"
"Yeah, that's me!"
"Some things are so beautiful when they're photocopied."
"Yeah"
"Like this one, I can't even tell what it is but it's beautiful."
"I always feel like I'm sucking Brandon's poetry dick but it's just so good."
"Oh, this is Logan. I like that. Reading something you like and then turning the page and thinking 'Oh, I know him.'"
"Oh, you lost me."
"Aaack, boooring."
"I mean what the fuck? I hate it when people sit down to write a poem and they're all 'Okay, it'll be about stars and have the word abyss in it and..."
"I'm such a jerk."
"I like this one. Remember Joseph Mosconi from L.A.? He did this one. It's super weird. I wonder how he wrote it."
"Here's a poem by Dana."
"Oh I love this cover!"
"You got anything good over there?"
I felt like I was looking though a yearbook. These things are striking. They make me feel sentimental and miss my poet friends. Luckily, I will see many of them/you tomorrow. Thanks for being part of my life and having me in yours, all, and thanks to David and Sara for making tangible a very important (and on-going) time in my life.
love,
Lindsey
Friday, February 19, 2010
Pop pop, fizz fizz. O what a relief it is--in my mouth. Cheap thrills on a Friday night. Look out for this guy. Are you rollin'? Nah, I'm cruising. One can't just
get away with
line breaks.
Overdrafted. Does that mean extra conscripted into military service? Skipped over by the gov't for being too 4-F or too gay or too openly female? Too much time spent commanding and shifting? Control C, control V. Them apples. It means purification by fire and I am both the eagle and the eyes--asunder-ing and suffering both. Which myth has the guy with his guts out, served up for eternity? Vittle vitals. Tasty 'testines. Give it up! Give it up! Give up for Miss Sweet-thing over here.
Decimated.
Wasted like desolation time's come and gone, super gone, hammered, out of hand, off the chain. Off the chain and the rock floats the brain from the eyes pecked to pieces, goes to elsewhere for thoughts on smartstuff. My pleasure is too mighty and I flee. Forgive me, I am only now learning to be here. If I split, it's because the chaos got in and my guts can't differentiate between the good kind and the bad kind. I may pee all over the place. I may be ripped in twain by your generosity. By your generously sized generosity. I swear.
Fire and wrath and no money. No money.
I step down from the bus, saying "pardon me" and leave teeth marks on every metal surface behind me. My shit is on that bus. Because I lost it on that bus. My hands folded in my lap. Like, here is the church and here is the steeple, open the doors and see all the people... and your fingers are inside. That's the surprise. Open the doors and your fingers are inside and they there are people. Possible people. People make people. People make people by opening up and seeing what's inside. Was your upbringing slightly religious? but just out of laziness or lack of a better system? like the best preschool is the Catholic one and bible stories teach good values. Wait. What?
Even now, when good stuff shows up saying hey, check me out, I'm super interesting and worth noticing. Don't be afraid. I entertain self destructive fantasies. I swear. I could bite through that hand rail, no problem. Lose my teeth on a diseased bench seat. Bite through bottle necks. Froth, big time.
So we work it out. And much of it is not fit for public consumption but process is like really "in" right now so maybe we put it out there, erring on the side of people generally like what I do and think I'm an okay person so...
and that is how things continue to happen.
get away with
line breaks.
Overdrafted. Does that mean extra conscripted into military service? Skipped over by the gov't for being too 4-F or too gay or too openly female? Too much time spent commanding and shifting? Control C, control V. Them apples. It means purification by fire and I am both the eagle and the eyes--asunder-ing and suffering both. Which myth has the guy with his guts out, served up for eternity? Vittle vitals. Tasty 'testines. Give it up! Give it up! Give up for Miss Sweet-thing over here.
Decimated.
Wasted like desolation time's come and gone, super gone, hammered, out of hand, off the chain. Off the chain and the rock floats the brain from the eyes pecked to pieces, goes to elsewhere for thoughts on smartstuff. My pleasure is too mighty and I flee. Forgive me, I am only now learning to be here. If I split, it's because the chaos got in and my guts can't differentiate between the good kind and the bad kind. I may pee all over the place. I may be ripped in twain by your generosity. By your generously sized generosity. I swear.
Fire and wrath and no money. No money.
I step down from the bus, saying "pardon me" and leave teeth marks on every metal surface behind me. My shit is on that bus. Because I lost it on that bus. My hands folded in my lap. Like, here is the church and here is the steeple, open the doors and see all the people... and your fingers are inside. That's the surprise. Open the doors and your fingers are inside and they there are people. Possible people. People make people. People make people by opening up and seeing what's inside. Was your upbringing slightly religious? but just out of laziness or lack of a better system? like the best preschool is the Catholic one and bible stories teach good values. Wait. What?
Even now, when good stuff shows up saying hey, check me out, I'm super interesting and worth noticing. Don't be afraid. I entertain self destructive fantasies. I swear. I could bite through that hand rail, no problem. Lose my teeth on a diseased bench seat. Bite through bottle necks. Froth, big time.
So we work it out. And much of it is not fit for public consumption but process is like really "in" right now so maybe we put it out there, erring on the side of people generally like what I do and think I'm an okay person so...
and that is how things continue to happen.
Thursday, February 18, 2010
All of a sudden I find myself editing things. In any given week I will edit at least one piece of writing but often times more. These may include: books, chapbooks, elementary school newspapers, poetry, essays or my own writing. When I say find, I mean that particularly because I do feel like editing just showed up in my life one day and decided to hang out for a while, rather than its presence in my life existing because of a slow accrual of engagement, on my part, over time. It's as shocking as looking to my left and seeing someone I'm in love with sitting next to me on my couch or looking to my right and seeing a gaggle of talented, thrilling, creative people that I can and do call friends milling around. Where did you all come from? How did this happen? What else can happen if this has already happened?
Wednesday, February 3, 2010
"MARIBOR" STATUS: PUBLISHED!
Whew!
I'm too tired to say much of anything but yahoo!!! and check it out!
FOR IMMEDIATE RELEASE, February 1st, 2010
Maribor
by Demosthenes Agrafiotis
Translated by John Sakkis and Angelos Sakkis
Poetry 86pgs $15.00 ISBN: 978-0942996-70-8
As a North American I can only nod in awe at the dark mystery these poems offer, and the chastening, steel-eyed precision of European thought. In the hands of a master poet like Demosthenes Agrafiotis an old world emerges that is both bone-tired and on the cusp of renewal…
The Europe of cafés, fashionable clothing, insane nationalist wars, & razor-edged critical thought is crisply present; while beneath it all beats a spiritual pulse as archaic as the Magdalenian caves. Into the tiny fractures of modern economy, philosophy, personality, and history, leak the structures of myth. Maribor is Slovenia’s second largest city, riddled with beauty & tragedy, & one site of the ethnic conflicts of the twentieth century. It is also a city that sits at a spiritual center—a center this poem, composed during the tumult of the 1990s, managed to reach. John and Angelos Sakkis are to be congratulated for having brought us a living poem in American-English. They manage to navigate not just contemporary Greek, but French, Italian, Latin, German, and such stunning lines as “the sparrow comes and perches / on the chair and leaves a dropping / all words are available / and suitable.”
⎯Andrew Schelling
“who assigns names? // the name itself” Demosthenes Agrafiotis’s name assigned him a superb origin myth. He was born in the Agrafa, a region historically so remote its inhabitants eluded conquest and were thus undocumented or “unwritten” in the records of the empire, a place that consequently became a refuge for forbidden Greek literacy. Agrafiotis translates the paradox of his inheritances into poetry that collaborates with the autonomy of the sign, animating its multiple lives and orchestrating the resonances of its indeterminacy. Maribor gives us both artifact—of the ephemera of communication, institutions, power—as well as blueprint for imagining an “alphabet of the future.” A master of the c contemporary hermetic, Agrafiotis can bring to light in one stroke both the evanescence and endurance of the writing on the wall.
⎯Eleni Stecopoulos
Demosthenes Agrafiotis is a Greek poet, visual artist and performer living in Athens, Greece. His book Chinese Notebook, also translated by John and Angelos Sakkis is forthcoming from Ugly Duckling Presse in 2010.
John Sakkis’ is a poet and translator living in San Francisco. He is the author of the book Rude Girl (Blaze Vox 2009). Angelos Sakkis is a translator and painter living in Oakland, California.
Order: online from our distributor, Small Press Distribution www.spdbooks.org or directly from the press by phone: (415) 332-1458 / mail: 35 Marie St. Sausalito, CA 94965 email: postapollo@earthlink.net. / Publicity contact: Lindsey Boldt lindsey@postapollopress.com
I'm too tired to say much of anything but yahoo!!! and check it out!
FOR IMMEDIATE RELEASE, February 1st, 2010
Maribor
by Demosthenes Agrafiotis
Translated by John Sakkis and Angelos Sakkis
Poetry 86pgs $15.00 ISBN: 978-0942996-70-8
As a North American I can only nod in awe at the dark mystery these poems offer, and the chastening, steel-eyed precision of European thought. In the hands of a master poet like Demosthenes Agrafiotis an old world emerges that is both bone-tired and on the cusp of renewal…
The Europe of cafés, fashionable clothing, insane nationalist wars, & razor-edged critical thought is crisply present; while beneath it all beats a spiritual pulse as archaic as the Magdalenian caves. Into the tiny fractures of modern economy, philosophy, personality, and history, leak the structures of myth. Maribor is Slovenia’s second largest city, riddled with beauty & tragedy, & one site of the ethnic conflicts of the twentieth century. It is also a city that sits at a spiritual center—a center this poem, composed during the tumult of the 1990s, managed to reach. John and Angelos Sakkis are to be congratulated for having brought us a living poem in American-English. They manage to navigate not just contemporary Greek, but French, Italian, Latin, German, and such stunning lines as “the sparrow comes and perches / on the chair and leaves a dropping / all words are available / and suitable.”
⎯Andrew Schelling
“who assigns names? // the name itself” Demosthenes Agrafiotis’s name assigned him a superb origin myth. He was born in the Agrafa, a region historically so remote its inhabitants eluded conquest and were thus undocumented or “unwritten” in the records of the empire, a place that consequently became a refuge for forbidden Greek literacy. Agrafiotis translates the paradox of his inheritances into poetry that collaborates with the autonomy of the sign, animating its multiple lives and orchestrating the resonances of its indeterminacy. Maribor gives us both artifact—of the ephemera of communication, institutions, power—as well as blueprint for imagining an “alphabet of the future.” A master of the c contemporary hermetic, Agrafiotis can bring to light in one stroke both the evanescence and endurance of the writing on the wall.
⎯Eleni Stecopoulos
Demosthenes Agrafiotis is a Greek poet, visual artist and performer living in Athens, Greece. His book Chinese Notebook, also translated by John and Angelos Sakkis is forthcoming from Ugly Duckling Presse in 2010.
John Sakkis’ is a poet and translator living in San Francisco. He is the author of the book Rude Girl (Blaze Vox 2009). Angelos Sakkis is a translator and painter living in Oakland, California.
Order: online from our distributor, Small Press Distribution www.spdbooks.org or directly from the press by phone: (415) 332-1458 / mail: 35 Marie St. Sausalito, CA 94965 email: postapollo@earthlink.net. / Publicity contact: Lindsey Boldt lindsey@postapollopress.com
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)