Negative Compass
Bret Shepard
Direction is silence beyond the gated forest
edging the field. We gate tonight. Then stop.

                                        Or silence the meadow.
Then stop talking. Or unrest our legs and set ourselves

                                        a path along the creekbed.
Then digest the matter of silence and the voles.

Pace slows the slow of speech, as in words
                                        form our geology.

Then natural matter is as constructed as the rest.
                                        Or we are mountains

peeking above clouds and we smell the fragrance
of biology. Then insect chords make us dance.

Or we erupt.
Then night erupts. Then silence is direction.
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The phrase "negative compass" came to me during a theory class I was taking. I can't say with certainty which work we were discussing, but I’m thinking something from Foucault. Somewhere, I believe I have the essay where I first wrote it down, but it's now lost to a box in storage. What remains of that experience for me is this poem.

Bret Shepard on "Negative Compass"
Scaffolding of William Blake's cottage
"William Blake’s Cottage Will Be Saved—and Transformed Into a New Museum"

"A dilapidated English cottage rented by William Blake, the lauded 18th-century Romantic poet, is about to get a much-needed makeover. Eventually, after crews finish restoring the structure, it will open as a public museum. Located in the quaint village of Felpham in West Sussex, the cottage has fallen into disrepair in the last decade, with issues ranging from rotting rafters to crumbling walls. Three charitable organizations—the World Monuments Fund, the Foyle Foundation and Foulerton Charitable Trust—have helped raise emergency funds to save and protect the roof."

via SMITHSONIAN MAGAZINE
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What Sparks Poetry:
Ian U Lockaby on Edward Salem's "Fullness"


"In Edward Salem’s poem “Fullness,” thought is derailed, not from the first instant but nearly, and in each subsequent instant the poem expands and contracts simultaneously in a dissent against time and space, as it leads us to a divine, non-existent anal inner mountain, where there is nothing (and everything) to be seen (at once). Operating intertextually with a Godhead in its poetics of negation, the poem manages, paradoxically, to build possibility through its persistent negations. Each time a line of argument becomes discernable, it’s quickly and forcefully wrought back around its own tail, creating coils of energy in refusal."
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