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my two favorite poetry subjects: truth (or lies) and place

February 3, 2011

As many of you know, my two favorite subjects, when the idea of poetry process is discussed, are truth and place. Frontal Junkyard (the blog of Marie-Elizabeth Mali) published an interview yesterday with Keetje Kuipers with lots to say about both of those things. Go read it! Here’s some enticement:

“I think to point out to readers the poems that contain some “imaginative truth-telling” is to somehow undermine their authenticity as objects of art, to say that they don’t deserve the same regard as those I could read aloud while strapped to a lie detector.”

  1. Edward Rinaldi permalink
    February 5, 2011 3:40 am

    Carolee Sherwood,

    In the closest and truest sense of any semblance of maturity I have found I know as well I must sound the poem home, much to the chagrin of my kin for they bear most of the sin of the construction of the confessional…I can’t thank you enough for the “bone cage” image as it struck a deep resonance…this is one of many that I have had the luxury of diving, delving into, that of a most certain amusement of life’s gifts instead of shelving those mad smiles in the dark, as one might keep whim and lark like fireflies in a jar, too mesmerized to spar from afar against the spark that might light the whole universe on fire…


    Edward Rinaldi

    Rooms ,elegy and me and the rhyme of winter’s silence broken by peeing in the snows while the dark smile, a moonless sky knows, looms…

    and we don’t always like being fleshed
    to the live-wired cages
    we choose which falls to furnish
    with the rages we thresh
    with rhythm embedded
    in each of our dying lights
    or first flights
    that might fancy anything that can blind
    where all the roots spun
    into each one
    finds our stories
    a quiet process
    a meshed clockless world
    anchoring of each of our shadows whorled
    where without fingers or long looks
    to how the wind hooks
    and knows each of our notes,
    we still gather as dust might

    each crawl
    from an earless black
    is grown to feel sound
    taught to back sown wings found
    where time’s skin
    doesn’t melt or begin
    stopping gills and stomping fins
    for this bent wired world wins
    with my rounded rotted teeth
    a fitted legacy wreathed
    to a castle caste bequeathed
    waits baiting my eye bent
    to any given moment
    when I can skillfully lament
    I can
    be lent
    and bought loud
    and sent
    as all I have to do is
    turn off
    and cop out…

    EJR (c)


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