ISBN 13: 9781436370165
What is the goal of poetry? Is it to make music with language? To express feeling? To make an argument? And the goal of criticism? To analyze.
To investigate. My first exposure to the hybrid genre that combines the critical essay with the lyric movements and methods of poetry came when I heard Maureen McLane read from her National Book Critics Circle Award-nominated book My Poets. The writer-critic wants to explore the work that has shaped them personally, or that their own creative work is in dialogue with. In academia, especially, we are groomed to believe that there is only one method of exploration.
It begins with a college-age McLane struggling to find a topic for her senior thesis. I was falling off the edge of Gertrude Stein and there was no ledge for me no stone to stand on in Gertrude Stein. Both poets were lesbians, but Bishop kept this out of work published in her lifetime, where Stein did not.
The Alchemy of Poetry Plus Criticism
You are a stir of wind, the scent of rare wood, your mind mirrors the breath of sages, your thoughts are new. I called you and you came. Above the hearth, before the shelves holding three books, a small cupboard is sketched in air— only her eyes can open it. It holds the spirits but on Saturday night they come out. They scent the room, they trail through the debris of hearts, they examine the dead.
The Alchemy of Mind by Flamur Vehapi
Her brother knocks on their shared wall at midnight. He seems to say he is alive, however he may appear in a room with parents, on the walk to school, or as he hunches his neck over homework. He seems to say remember that I am alive, if I forget.
- Reward Yourself.
- The Alchemy of the Mind and Spirit: Intersections of Science and Poetry.
- Schriften zur Geschichte der Dichtung und Sage - 1865 (German Edition)?
- Inventing the Electronic Century: The Epic Story of the Consumer Electronics and Computer Industries, With a New Preface (Harvard studies in business history ;)!
- The Alchemy of Happiness?
- A Lifetime Of Holidays ... Part One?
She opens the cupboard door again just in case there is anything else, and there is. In her dream, while she is fainting from cold, the child imagines a blackboard. She draws a house, trees, a path, sunshine. She is inside the house eating pancakes. She plays the piano, sits on a beige carpet touching the lamp cord softly to the socket.
Around her is a blanket of noise: not the wind, not Lucifer filling her hollow bones but the hiss of a swan, its wings trembling fabulous air.
I bend my head to drink from the rivulet of limitless waters. Timeless water drips from my lips.
It is no substitute, it does not remember intelligence or faith, it cannot recall you to me—you who have finished with this world. Pass into the deep, if you must, so that the one drop which is yourself may become a sea: but do not drown, put on your shoes, set out as if to visit me. There was snow thick as silver coins, there was the silence of broken windows.
The street was troubled with the heels of the dead, their broad calves and trembling knees. Their open mouths swallowed our breath, their wet hands touched my belly: not here, I said, and put down my suitcase.