I wrote this poem sort of playfully. I wanted to write a poem about nothing at all. I didn't want to explain what I was feeling narratively, I just wanted to describe it. I wrote it on a really hot day.
Hua Xi on "Handfuls" |
|
|
Abolitionist John Whittier Greenleaf's Letters Found in Charity Shop
"The discovery was made by volunteers at the Gatehouse of Fleet YMCA, in Dumfries and Galloway, after a woman left the books with them. Inside their pages were letters that appear to have come from the prominent abolitionist campaigner. The library at Whittier College in California—named after the poet—has confirmed that they appear to be authentic letters in his handwriting."
via BBC |
|
|
What Sparks Poetry:
Lloyd Wallace on Language as Form
"As the poet attempts to bring their past into the present, into the poetic medium, attempting to make it a keepable artifact, we can see it being buried by the world, by outer artifice, just as the past is buried by the present. The key pathos—the beauty—of this poem is that as we see the poet speaking, we also see them disappear. So, to amend a previous statement: yes, the poem is full of evidence that the poet has lived. But it’s also evidence that she is disappearing, too." |
|
|
|
|
|
|
