Antidotes for an alibi - poetry
Amy King's first full-length collection, Antidotes for an Alibi, insists that we analyze the not to be trusted clarity of our events and the goals that motivate us. How does one essentially get from "A" to "B"-and is there ever exceedingly a "B"? What color is the white space connecting "A" and "B"? Upon nearer inspection, appear realities bring to light themselves to be leaky and fragile, covered with textures and grains that lead the eye on changeable pathways. So what are we to do in a world of newspaper narratives that instruct us concerning tidy endings, murmuring that such endings are doable and even inevitable?
These poems greet us with leaking giraffes, dogs that lick lye, the Lone Ranger, the inhabitants of Dishwater Island, an single wife and a Sikh cab driver, all performing surrounded by a accustomed atmosphere of car phone messages, factory work, walks all the way through woods, red robins and hummingbirds, war zones and American histories. Both the lettering and their shifting frameworks blend and overlap to point out the peculiarity we tend to overlook for clarity's sake. King wants us to reconsider the promise of contemporary events, to see that Truth is no longer a cycle of fixed notations in black and white, but is a shape-shifting, multi-faceted chain of perspectives. Her poetry celebrates the multiplicities that sing contained by the become known of every balk and action; she aims at attractive surges, so that readers may touch and revel in the fears of a center world in motion.
I admire Amy King's poetry tremendously for the way it manipulates deceptively plain foreign language into caring audacities. But her work is never in love with its own spiky cleverness. Quite the opposite: it is marked, even at its most cutting or witty, by an basic refusal to embarrassed laugh at its own surprises. I first came to be au fait with King's poetry, quite appropriately, by the collision of since what the British call "English mosaic" on a streetlamp at the northeast area of Eighth Lane and Broadway in Manhattan. "English mosaic" is what happens when a big shot on purpose creative takes pieces of porcelain, china, clay pots - ordinary, rare, or exceptional - smashes them (that violence being central to rebirth) and air force the beautiful ruins into new relations to one another. That street light seems the complete concrete depiction of King's work, which takes up the concrete and moral world we perceive, holds it gently for a jiffy in a cherishing accept - the develop to dash it adjacent to a hard become known and rearrange the new fragments in strange, enduring ways. Appraisal King's poems makes the eyes smart in every sense of the phrase: readers are compelled to see as doable juxtapositions they never would have envisioned on their own. "English mosaic" also describes the cool fun King has with plain nickel words, cunningly reshuffled. Hers is not a surrealist's art - she does not accept chaos - but she does want to make readers feel that the comfortable rug and chairs they sit on have by some means grown ambulatory and are threatening to walk exterior into the yard to sniff the air. Nonentity is quite safe; nonentity ashes the same - appetizingly so.
-Michael Steinman has in black and white and abridged six books, together with The Happiness of Receiving It Down Right and The Building block of Lavishness, which was preferred as a NYT Notable Book in 2001.
Amy King grew up in Georgia and now spends much of her time in Brooklyn and Baltimore. She teaches English at Nassau Area Institution on Long Island, and her first collection, Antidotes for an Alibi, is free because of Blazevox [books].
Poetry and Common Culture
Is poetry too convoluted for the be in the region of reader? Is it too cryptic, scholarly? If you ask a large group of be around ancestors what they like or don't like about poetry, you'll get a few altered answers, but there is an awesomely collective group of responses.One of the main reasons that associates say they aren't addicted to contemporary poetry is that they feel it is too cryptic.
Three Poems: Ghost of the Rocks; Lady from Lima & Bell Ringer of de Copan
Phantom of the Rocks[Huancayo, Peru]Night falls deepUpon the traveler!Low, over the AndesBy Huancayo-;They know a legend,Not of this earth,Where evil lurks(Over Palla-Huarcuan!..
Way of Life: Rhymes of the Inca [four poems: see in Spanish and English NOW!]
Way of Life: Rhymes of the IncaPizarro (Spanish conquistador ((1525))The blind abide by the blind The dumb admire the fool But the cleaver, like 'Pizarro,' (who could not read or write) Followed human-nature? And ruled the Inca world!Thus, Atahualpa was Beheaded out of pride and Indolence-: one might say, And ignorance ruled? .Note: don Francisco Pizarro #689 5/27/05Cepeda the Sly [Lima, Perú-l546 AD]Cepeda the Sly-, judge With two sides; one false, One pride-both mixed with lies.
Mechanical Poetry; Part Two
What do you do when you want to write poetry? I hope your come back with is "I start writing." Even journalism a bad poem is advance than coming up for the "right words.
Here And There
My eyes opened. I am still alive; Living on globe earth.
The Poets Area [Three Poems with a review]
The Poet's Corner [Three poem/ see appraisal of poetry under the poems]The Poets CondorThe condor fly's Amongst the hillsIn open skies Of San Jerrónimo, Near Huancayo?Forbidding any To near his path-Lest he dare To risk a attack, Near Huancayo!..
Five Mixed Poems, with Notes [now is Spanish and English]
1.Night in Jamaica [Peruvianism: 1810]It was a rainy night they say When don Simon Bolivar Slept in the arms of beautiful -Luisa Crober (of Jamaica); thus an Assassin missed his mark When he stabbed Major Amestoy Sleeping in the dark In Bolivar's hammock!.
I Sought after TO SAY IT WITH A BUNCH OF Flora A CARD WOULD HAVE SUFFICED.I Required TO SAY IT WITH A PACK OF SWEETS A' HI' WOULD HAVE SUFFICED.
JOINEDHeart beat of man pounding - yet unheard joined becomes the beat of a nation.Words of man written - yet unread joined becomes a proclamation.
Robert Burns Love Poem: A Red, Red Rose
Robert Burns, a poor man, an educated man, and a ladies' man, is agent of Scotland, much like whisky, haggis, bagpipes, and kilts. He lived a life shortened by stiff heart disease, 1759-1796, but his life journey because of poverty, informal education, disappointed love, nationalism, and literary and pecuniary sensation can be identified by all Scots and communal men the world over.
San Francisco [Almost a Sonnet]
(The city by the bay of Northern California, near which the Appeasing Ocean resides; the year is 1967)Mid October seemed like some bound day,When because of the calm waters, dry as lead, The ferry, like vague dimness that stand the dead,Slipped down the coiled coast of Frisco bay, Rounded the Blonde Gate,-and San Francisco lay, Before me, that gay city, pink and red, Hippies roofed Haigh Asbury's down-and-out head,-My home, to be, I found stirring and grey.The waves not working on the wooden-sides; fishermenNearby with long necks, looked and cast again.
Daybreak at Pikes Creek [a Poem]
Daybreak at Pikes Creek [Summer of 2005]Daybreak by Lake Superior Rising out of the woods like: A swamp mist I'm behind you for breakfast(at the B&B) I pace the grounds The scent of green shrubbery: Trees, flora, flowers-rain Intoxicates me- Branches like big brown arms Descend? The embankment, to the right Blue eyed, like mine-reflect From the creek beneath me (my wife says 'be careful' she went to get the camera) The greens and blues touch My face and blue jeans- Reflections mirrored like Musical notes of a symphony (I'll see them later in pictures) For now, it's daybreak In Minnesota.#813 8/26/2005Note: the author, Dennis Siluk, took his wife Rosa [me: on my birthday] to Lake Superior, this summer, and I established the largest lake in the world.
Two Poems on the Traditions of Peru [in English and Spanish]
Atahualpa's Game [Peruvian]Sometimes, it's not wise To share your wisdom ---as did, Atahualpa (The Inca King) in the Game of chess; thereafter, He was condemned to death.6/6/05 #713Note: Atahualpa, was the most famed of the Inca Kings, in the 16th century of Peru, I do relieve, and was held for payment by the Spaniards.
The Exterminate of Lima and Path to Mantaro Valley (Two Poems)
Footprints to Mantaro Valley (Peru; in English and Spanish)In what flee art hid?-Where declining mountains groan In shadow and amongThe fast-moving water of the Rio? Is not your name Mantaro Valley?Beyond the footsteps of the Andes--?I can hear your voice in echoesI can hear thy voice, delightfully low. I do but know thy by a glanceAs the clouds above me know? .
Farewell to Lester Graybill
I never met a man, who could shake my hand, and make my heart feel like a fireplace afire.I never met a man, who could smile so easy, real honest.
It's dark, it's cold, its' just six thirty,thoughts of sleep still dull my brain,As I bend down, exclusive my coat,a customer clone, just coming up for a train.Insidious rain, just showery down,through weak light of creeping dawn,Paper sandwich bags and old auburn cups,blowing past, look so forlorn.
Have you ever practiced obsession with a big shot you know is not a good match for you? Or how about an appealing association that roots itself deep in your memory..
now is not the time to open open that great door again not the time to be more tolerant not the time to play to winnow is not the time for justice evolution mercy choices not the time to pet the puppies yipping with pathetic voicesnow is not the time for kindness not the time for compromise not the time for loving blindness not the time to close my eyesnow for one too many people not that i have gained no good heart has sown but flesh is reaping tears to mind and atrophied bloodnow my inner wolf seeks equals only those whose chords can howl deadly whether lone or social defending young or on the prowltell me not that you would die upon the spines of my displeasure live for me and for you will i cherish each cell as if a treasureput me not classified a cage but roam with me all through snow and sun be by my side or breathe my dust for i shall bleed again for noneNiki Lasher Artist, Writer, and Webmatron http://www.kthulah.
Four Poems: Grendels Nature...the Racetrack...Counting days...[Now in English and Spanish]
English Version1) Grendel's DivorceYou must know that I do not hateAnd that I hate you, Because the whole thing dead has twoSides; A sound is one arm of the quiet, Ice has its warm half.I hate you in order to start hating you To begin life again And never to stop hating you: That is why I do not hate you yet.
No one ought to have to beg or crawl ahead of humanity. No one be supposed to have to design to buy philanthropy.
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