
Nada Gordon wrote in this comment box:
Ange writes that,”the fiercest experimental writing… has always been related to experience in some way.” Ange, could you expand on that? It seems to me like a huge statement and I’m not convinced it’s true.

The title of my second collection of poetry, Other Fugitives and Other Strangers, comes from a line in the final stanza of the poem “Reasons” by the late Thomas James:
I am aware of your body and its dangers.
I spread my cloak for you in leafy weather
Where other fugitives and other strangers
Will put their mouths together.
Like the Muses, they are attracted to talent and promising projects, and the presence of several at once probably means you are on to something big. Still, they can frustrate or even destroy the most inspired tender new poem, and send the poet into despair, alcoholism, or flash fiction. The more we know about them, the better.

I heard a fascinating piece of gossip the other day. I heard that Helen Vendler doesn’t believe good poems are ambiguous!
I call it gossip because I heard it secondhand from someone who had heard her say this at some talk or other. At any rate, it led to lively speculations about what separated good old High-Modernist Ambiguity from bad Postmodernist Indeterminacy.* And it dovetailed with this Monet show I was mulling over, which in turn spoke to issues of ambiguity that I’ve been in love with since I first read a poem I couldn’t understand.
For Monet’s Waterlilies series crystallizes the question haunting all art: What is real?

Ben Friedlander has remarked in a commentary here that “readers make tradition, and so abdicate their power when they accept blindly what tradition hands down.” I agree with this statement, and I suppose that, in my acts of thinking out loud here, I am suggesting that too many critics of poetry abdicate their power to the already written, failing to recognize that most poetry deserves to be forgotten—unless it becomes an engine for subsequent innovation. I think that the avant-garde suggests that no poet can “rest on their laurels” for very long without reinventing the future of poetry itself—and hence, the avant-garde has often seen the need to revisit the neglected, unexalted techniques of writing for overlooked potentials….
It seems like someone should post about this. I guess it will be me. There is a changing of the guard over at the New Yorker—long-time Poetry Editor, Alice Quinn, is stepping down, and Paul Muldoon is stepping up. Maybe this is already common knowledge all over the poetry world—I just heard it the other day on a conference call with Emily Warn and our fellow bloggers. It’s big, exciting news.
The youngest and craziest of our three cats, Geno– who once won a fight with a Kleenex box– has been jumpy and grumpy lately: with school starting, we’ve been home less, and he’s been transforming his unused playfulness into aggression against his (adopted) older brother and sister kitties.
What to do? Give Geno more attention each weekend, of course, and especially on Caturdays (and no, we didn’t make Caturday up; far from it). Right now, though, Geno is nowhere to be found, and so I’ll give attention, instead, to some cats in poems. What brings cats into poems? Why are there so many? Do they have anything in common? Why

Some commentators on this weblog have pointed out that the effects of “neglect” upon the history of poetics might constitute a great topic for a dissertation. l totally endorse this idea, and I hope that, one day, some plucky critic might embark upon such a titanic project—but I suspect that, in keeping with the cynical ironies of the academy, research about “neglect” might end up suffering from the very condition that it proposes to study, much like the virologist who ends up contracting, from his diseased patients, the very contagion that he is trying to cure. I might suggest that, even if critics deign to read such a study, thereby learning how and why great poets have, in the past, gone underestimated by their contemporaries, critics of today are still going to fail in response to these lessons of history, thereby perpetuating such neglect when faced with modern brands of poetic genius….
Zach B at Cultural Society, which is both an online magazine and a book press, has a new issue, or anyway a new salvo of poems, up now. There’s a long, casual poem, with a very neat ending, by Amanda Nadelberg, a Minneapolis writer whose ingenuity produced one of my favorite books last year…

Thanks again for the ongoing comments in response to some of my thoughts. A few of you have suggested that, because no one can really know the standards by which a future reader might judge our achievements, the avant-garde makes “unanswerable” claims about the merits of its own experimentation. I propose, however, that the avant-garde still warrants an “answer” to its claims, insofar as they almost always test the degree to which critics of poetry can actually do their jobs. A modern critic who argues that we cannot test the merits of the avant-garde merely absolves themselves of any duty to confront the problems posed by such work; hence, the critic can evade any need to refashion his or her own standards of judgement—and by refusing to make any committed arguments on behalf of the new, the critic never has to risk being wrong about its value….
Thom Donovan
Bhanu Kapil
Fred Moten
Craig Santos Perez
Sina Queyras
Sotère Torregian
Cathy Halley
Michael Marcinkowski
Travis Nichols
Fred Sasaki
Don Share
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