I wrote this poem for my sister while working on my manuscript at her house. Basically it's about mental suffering, an activity that pushed me to consider the scale of "doer" and "done-to" and the food chain. We're at the top, so who is to blame for feeling devoured by thoughts? What constitutes a life-form—and if we don't know, then how does this hierarchy work? The poem then looks to the love of the sister; empathizes; acknowledges the namelessness of this ancient—even biblical—ambiguity. Bianca Stone on "Does Life Exist Independent of Its Form?" |
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"Alan Chazaro: How Bay Area Graffiti Led Me to a Life of Writing"
"There, among other diverse and marginalized voices, we learned how to merge individual needs with community goals; to blend political imagination with social action; to connect historical knowledge with our poetry....what is poetry if not the graffiti of literature, centuries of pages being tagged by the once-voiceless until they cannot be ignored?"
via 48 HILLS |
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What Sparks Poetry:
Keene Carter on Susan Stewart's Cinder"'Bees' is a wonderfully successful poem, as is the book Columbarium and indeed all of Cinder. I've pried into it a little because of its success, which is, as I've tried to show, tied directly to its 'failure'—a 'failure' in quotation marks because it is the failure to represent everything, and that's like calling death a failure of life: the requirement is absurd, even if the sentence is true." |
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