From Mary Orovan a Touch of e.e. cummings if You Like
by Robert Mueller
These Elective Affinities, what are they? You do not have to believe ce personnage distingué in Goethe’s novel who has a way of explaining things. Thus der Hauptmann, supreme intellect with superb practical bent, can speak of a situation to which his old friend the Baron (and spouse) have invited him. Put, or putting himself, in charge, he can explore it fully, and in the new relations as he finds them discuss and explain fully. The upshot is that the Wahlverwandtschaften of the novel’s title relate analogically to any sort of relations, such as salts and acids, where the expelled element sinks back down and is recuperated. … |To be Continued “Robert Mueller: On the Poetry of Mary Orovan”
We have new fiction from Lara Dolphin and Donal Mahoney, an essay by Robert Mueller, and new poetry by John Saunders. 2013 is off to a very good start.
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Watched a flawed by still interesting movie last year, “The Words.” It’s about a writer’s dilemma upon discovering a truly brilliant novel, in an old briefcase. He reads the novel and is stunned. His own writing career has hit a wall, and he’s on the edge of desperation. No one will publish his own novel, though editors have nice things to say about it. The consensus among them is it’s just not marketable. … |To be Continued “Happy New Year, 2013!”
How to Do Urban, by New Yorker of Choice
Two young women, art students, funnel into the bleak and lead-like dreary light of the subway car grasping in their hands, by the frames on which they have been crafted, smallish paintings (maybe 12 by 16). Apparitions they are, the young artists, and holdings of the imagination, their finished images that I may never have the opportunity to observe again.
In New York City one can still think of opportunities not as tearless moments to rebuild upon destruction and demolition, but rather as the unexpected and normal continuance of spirit, (perhaps still) unlike any emanation of spirit anywhere else in the world. … |To be Continued “Robert Mueller: Anna Shukeylo’s Urban Diaries”
Yak Dance and Proscenium
makes the mention
of conglamourous totally
awesome by rope or practice tee.
doesn’t have a sweet
is a foolish anomaly
and we should never listen.
We are the bistrot
of concatenated overthrow
succeeding to Zeitlichkeit.
Fan, therefore, feathers in night.
please chisel hymn
giantly to the gods.
Next best, token bibulous
trammeled in gangling mimosas
terribly to twang odds.
So this is all.
The hips and the mods,
and so this is a suture.
So this is Christlike future
to very tombs.… |To be Continued “Robert Mueller: We Should be Yak Dancing”
Well, not quite. But we do have an expressive report from Robert Mueller regarding his evening on the town and a concert performance of New York musicians/composers. As George Spencer mentions in the comments, Robert seems to sync his prose meter (quite naturally) with the music he heard — without stretching the metaphor.
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On a different note: Brian O’Nolan, otherwise known as Flann O’Brien, was born a century ago as of October 5th of this year. The author of The Third Policeman and At Swim-Two-Birds is one of my all-time favorites, and deserving of quite a big ruckus on his centennial.… |To be Continued “Live, From New York!”
Alan Gilbert, Late in the Antenna Fields
The writing in Alan Gilbert’s volume of poetry, Late in the Antenna Fields (Futurepoem Books, 2011), feasts on sarcasm and dispirited bitterness, not to mention a certain snagging anomie. Putting it better or worse, the reader might think to assimilate it to some kind of art adhesion. One is led, or profited, to hear, and to sense and to pick at, a general vaguely petulant and vaguely disinterested and yet persistent patter of ambient petrified displeasure. There is thus less of a danger than a foregone captation in this approach, inherently. … |To be Continued “New Poetry Review, by Robert Mueller”
New poetry from Joseph Milford graces our front page now, along with an essay by Robert Mueller on the poetry of Alan Gilbert. Both bring in a touch of the surreal, which is always welcome here. Because, poetry is like . . . a simile. Or, as Ernest Hemingway would say, “Do you want to box?”
Which reminds me of the film I saw last night, Woody Allen’s wonderful Midnight in Paris. An ode to the city of light, an ode to love, and a trip through time with Scott, Zelda, Stein, Picasso, Dali, Bunuel and a host of great artists, writers and composers.… |To be Continued “Midnight in Paris”