new old kid on the blog,
with an occasional
old or new poem written off
the old writer's block
This looks back as from a charmless, joyless, soul-less and wonderfully immaculate (i.e. inhuman) future to a prior primitive epoch when the making of poems involved (heavens forbid!) the actual touch of the hand to physical substances -- paper, ink. How very inconvenient all that must have been. Before we "advanced"... that is, moved ahead to... erm. I forget what.
Beautiful! So much energy in that word "curious." Poems not hammered together like boilers but a network of tracks made while on some instinctual quest. Keep your nose to the ground, amigo!
I like that idea of leaving 'tracks'. Didn't Stevens call the poem the pheasant disappearing in the bush?I say, Let readers find their own way inside.
nothing sings/zings more thanthat now ancient clickity-clackity DING!that has moved across white pagesthen over-the-edgeof the piece of paper and thenwilly-nillyinto Big Mind-Imagination.I sure miss my Underwood #5& the 5 extra spaces given after that bell sounded.two pieces issued via my "touching-playing" the typewriter's keysthat y'all jus might get a 'giggle' from:POINTS / COUNTERPOINTS (1971) MY TYPEWRITER IS EROTIC (2010)nice piece ... again and againyou produce solid/original "stuff"- a 'breath of fresh air'
As Tom points out, I think most of us—at least most of the people I’ve met through the Internet via this blog—like to “look back to a prior primitive epoch when the making of poems involved the actual touch of the hand to physical substances” i.e., Ed’s typewriter and which leave tracks we can actually pursue; on the other hand, there is no going back, is there? Once again, a pleasure reading such generous comments from friends I did not have back in those fondly remembered typewriter days.