She looked at me like someone who has just solved the crossword puzzle with a shrewd ``Emu'' in the top right hand corner.
Grandfather's dirty pictures typewriter erotica in the 1920s. (NSFW-ish.)
A camera that takes word pictures, by the designer Matt Richardson
A new installation at the Museum of Art in New York, titled, "Dial-a-Poem" brings ecstatic poetry to you online or over the phone at any time of the day or nigh
We are pleased to announce the BIG BRIDGE 15 YEAR ANNIVERSARY ISSUE! including Cuyahoga Burning, edited by Jonathan Penton:
...the sheer number of poets now plying their craft inevitably ensures moderation and safety. The national (or even transnational) demand for a certain kind of prize-winning, “well-crafted” poem—a poem that the New Yorker would see fit to print and that would help its author get one of the “good jobs” advertised by the Association of Writers & Writing Programs—has produced an extraordinary uniformity.---
From Marjorie Perloff’s essay, “Poetry on the Brink,”recently published in the Boston Review,
When my mother was very old and in a nursing home, she surprised me one day toward the end of her life by asking me if I still wrote poetry. When I blurted out that I still do, she stared at me with incomprehension. I had to repeat what I said, till she sighed and shook her head, probably thinking to herself this son of mine has always been a little nuts. Now that I’m in my seventies, I’m asked that question now and then by people who don’t know me well. Many of them, I suspect, hope to hear me say that I’ve come my senses and given up that foolish passion of my youth and are visibly surprised to hear me confess that I haven’t yet. They seem to think there is something downright unwholesome and even shocking about it, as if I were dating a high school girl, at my age, and going with her roller-skating that night...
Charles Simic wrote this post on the New York Review of Books blog explaining why he still writes poems.
Charles Bukowski on depression, withdrawal, and creativity
Poetry in Britain
Iain Sinclair visits Gary Snyder at his retreat in the woods.
“I shot the serif. (But I did not shoot the sans-serif.)” A first-person-shooter typography game.
Perloff finds much bottomry
afoot in current poetry.
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