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(One time my old roommate’s boyfriend asked me what my poems are about and I said “being in a bad mood in a weird place” in reference to that poem. It’s not true but also it is true.)

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Poem About the Way You Can Be Looked At and Disappear

          I was reading The Metamorphoses
making a spreadsheet of what women
                                               can turn into
          to avoid what:
                   cow, water, swan, reeds.

I have a poem in the new issue of Phantom Limb!

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Eileen Myles

ravimangla:

I want to be challenged as a human being in terms of how many kinds of people I can be, how many ways I can be open, how many adjustments I can make. You have to, just to exist in the day. Everyday is this crazy little jungle gym of adjustments just to keep your sanity and keep functioning, and keep receiving messages and sending messages. I love the idea that a poem can do that. So it’s a little map of consciousness that says: this is what it is like to be alive.

- Eileen Myles

(via susanlanders)

tenderbuttonspress:

c——-g:

from here

"It seems that the fiction writer has a revolting attachment to the poor, for even when he writes about the rich, he is more concerned with what they lack than with what they have. I am very much afraid that to the fiction writer the fact that we shall always have the poor with us is a source of satisfaction, for it means, essentially, that he will always be able to find someone like himself. His concern with poverty is with a poverty fundamental to man. I believe the basic experience of everyone is the experience of human limitation."

- Flannery O’Connor, “The Teaching of Literature,” in Mysteries and Manners.

"A woman from the audience asks: ‘Why were there so few women among the Beat writers?’ and [Gregory] Corso, suddenly utterly serious, leans forward and says: “There were women, they were there, I knew them, their families put them in institutions, they were given electric shock. In the ’50s if you were male you could be a rebel, but if you were female your families had you locked up."

- Stephen Scobie, on the Naropa Institute’s 1994 tribute to Allen Ginsberg (via fuckyeahbeatniks)

(via carolinecrew)

giganticworlds:

Cool Grant Snider comic (h/t Electric Literature) 

susanlanders:

"Mainly the voice should speak fearlessly" — Alice Notley

One step takes me home
Two steps back on my own
Three skips to each stone
Four steps back and I’m gone

"

So his mutual commitment with Takver, their relationship, had remained thoroughly alive during their four years’ separation. They had both suffered from it, and suffered a good deal, but it had not occurred to either of them to escape the suffering by denying the commitment.

For after all, he thought now, lying in the warmth of Takver’s sleep, it was joy they were both after—the completeness of being. If you evade suffering you also evade the chance of joy. Pleasure you may get, or pleasures, but you will not be fulfilled. You will not know what it is to come home.

Takver sighed softly in her sleep, as if agreeing with him, and turned over, pursuing some quiet dream.

Fulfillment, Shevek thought, is a function of time. The search for pleasure is circular, repetitive, atemporal. The variety seeking of the spectator, the thrill hunter, the sexually promiscuous, always ends in the same place. It has an end. It comes to the end and has to start over. It is not a journey and return, but a closed cycle, a locked room, a cell.

Outside the locked room is the landscape of time, in which the spirit may, with luck and courage, construct the fragile, makeshift, improbable roads and cities of fidelity: a landscape inhabitable by human beings.

It is not until an act occurs within the landscape of the past and the future that it is a human act. Loyalty, which asserts the continuity of past and future, binding time into a whole, is the root of human strength; there is no good to be done without it.

So, looking back on the last four years, Shevek saw them not as wasted, but as part of the edifice that he and Takver were building with their lives. The thing about working with time, instead of against it, he thought, is that it is not wasted. Even pain counts.

"

- Ursula K. Le Guin, The Dispossessed

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