Friday Report
I'm really excited about my teaching right now, and had another good class today. Funny story to tell which I'll try to write later.
After teaching I was brain-fried. Decided to wander over to used-book mecca and buy some poetry to sustain me through the weekend. My dad is coming today, and weekends in and of themselves are difficult, so with a visit from The Father I'm going to need even more sustenance than usual.
After the bookstore I had the absolute favorite cheap-lunch of a crepe with cheddar cheese, tomato, and spinach (even yummier with an egg, but I didn't do that today), and then wandered to the hushed and cool main library on campus. I've forgotten how much I love it there, and was especially excited that I got to feel superhumanly strong as turned the cranks to move all of the massive stacks in order to be able to access the books I wanted. Now I've got enough poetry and biography and word-wonderfulness to keep me ensconced in my own little language heaven for as long as necessary. AND, the best of all is that faculty can check books out for a year. 365 days until these are due, and no late fees. Hurray!
I couldn't do it today, but I decided that I must make it a practice to go spend an hour or so every Friday afternoon in the reading room with no cell phone, no computer. Just me and quietness and words. There are very few times in my life like that right now and I know that I need to make space for them.
Most-favorite used bookstore was giving out free broadsides, so here's a bit of Ferlinghetti for your Friday:
Lawrence Ferlinghetti: The First Page of "poetry as insurgent art"
I am signalling you through the flames.
The North Pole is not where it used to be.
Manifest Destiny is no longer manifest.
Civilization self-destructs.
Nemesis is knocking at the door.
What are poets for, in such an age? What is
the use of poetry?
The state of the world calls out for poetry to
save it.
If you would be a poet, create works
capable of answering the challenge of
apocalyptic times, even if this means
sounding apocalyptic.
You are Whitman, you are Poe, you are
Mark Twain, you are Emily Dickinson, and
Edna St. Vincent Millay, you are Neruda
and Mayakovski and Pasolini, you are an
American or a non-American, you can
conquer the conquerors with words.
If you would be a poet, write living
newspapers. Be a reporter from outer space,
filing dispatches to some supreme
managing editor who believes in full
disclosure and has a low tolerance for
bullshit.
on the occasion of his reading at Moe's Books, October 2nd, 2007
After teaching I was brain-fried. Decided to wander over to used-book mecca and buy some poetry to sustain me through the weekend. My dad is coming today, and weekends in and of themselves are difficult, so with a visit from The Father I'm going to need even more sustenance than usual.
After the bookstore I had the absolute favorite cheap-lunch of a crepe with cheddar cheese, tomato, and spinach (even yummier with an egg, but I didn't do that today), and then wandered to the hushed and cool main library on campus. I've forgotten how much I love it there, and was especially excited that I got to feel superhumanly strong as turned the cranks to move all of the massive stacks in order to be able to access the books I wanted. Now I've got enough poetry and biography and word-wonderfulness to keep me ensconced in my own little language heaven for as long as necessary. AND, the best of all is that faculty can check books out for a year. 365 days until these are due, and no late fees. Hurray!
I couldn't do it today, but I decided that I must make it a practice to go spend an hour or so every Friday afternoon in the reading room with no cell phone, no computer. Just me and quietness and words. There are very few times in my life like that right now and I know that I need to make space for them.
Most-favorite used bookstore was giving out free broadsides, so here's a bit of Ferlinghetti for your Friday:
Lawrence Ferlinghetti: The First Page of "poetry as insurgent art"
I am signalling you through the flames.
The North Pole is not where it used to be.
Manifest Destiny is no longer manifest.
Civilization self-destructs.
Nemesis is knocking at the door.
What are poets for, in such an age? What is
the use of poetry?
The state of the world calls out for poetry to
save it.
If you would be a poet, create works
capable of answering the challenge of
apocalyptic times, even if this means
sounding apocalyptic.
You are Whitman, you are Poe, you are
Mark Twain, you are Emily Dickinson, and
Edna St. Vincent Millay, you are Neruda
and Mayakovski and Pasolini, you are an
American or a non-American, you can
conquer the conquerors with words.
If you would be a poet, write living
newspapers. Be a reporter from outer space,
filing dispatches to some supreme
managing editor who believes in full
disclosure and has a low tolerance for
bullshit.
on the occasion of his reading at Moe's Books, October 2nd, 2007