Faits Divers de la Poesie Americaine et Britannique,
an anonymous blog inspired by Félix Fénéon’s Nouvelles en trois lignes:
In the middle of a reading, the last on his Bretagne tour, M. Antin caught fire. This was at the beach house of Mme Scalapino and family, in the middle of a long sentence. “His reputation as a literary figure is forever assured,” said Mme Perloff, in tears.
According to bystanders, M. Simic was, for unknown reasons, walking and whistling down a dark street in a questionable neighborhood of Nancy. The homeless poet known locally as Fork-Face jumped from the shadows, stabbing him fifty-four times in the legs.
The poet Mme Peacock was sitting in a beauty parlor, with a large metalloid cone upon her head. When she reached inside to scratch her scalp, one of her numerous rings caught a faulty wire, blacking out the whole arrondissement. This according to the Coroner.
A nervous graduate student addressed the Professor: “How is Language poetry really radical, etc. when it’s now the most academically dependent formation since the New Criticism?” Down rushed M. Perelman from the dais, biting off the little rat’s ear.
On April last, on the street, in front of the Academy of American Poets, M. Gizzi was seen tipping his bowler to M. Gioia, who tipped his own in return. Not a trace of either one for five months. The dark jokes accumulate.
Feeling hopelessly inferior to engineers, convinced that poetry is a loser’s pursuit, M. Sutherland jumped from London Bridge, into the filthy Thames. He was rescued by the heroic M. Prynne, an engineer. Irony.
For many years, M. Knott has been denied his proper due. Wearing a wedding gown and waving goodbye to those below, he flew his home-kit biplane far out to sea. Search suspended.
“I was writing in a white heat at the bar, absorbed in my inspiration, certainly minding my own business,” protested Mlle Smith, “when the pen just kind of flew out of my hand and, well, that’s how it happened…” M. Behrle, now blind in both eyes, is suing.
100 degrees in the shade in late October: M. Watten was seen, at Wayne State U., walking in a tank top, the stump covered in gauze, where his right arm had once been. Three months ago, it had been found, deposited (but by whom?) inside a Steinway.
[And no, I have nothing to do with this project.]
Linh Dinh was born in Saigon, Vietnam in 1963, came to the U.S. in 1975, and has also lived in Italy and England. He is the author of two collections of stories, Fake House (Seven Stories Press 2000) and Blood and Soap (Seven Stories Press 2004), and the novel Love...