VANITAS : a journal of poetry, writings by artists, criticism, and essays. During its decade of intervention in the public realm, VANITAS came out quasi-annually, serving as a forum for international voices with an emphasis on coming to grips with current world situations. Each issue contained writings by artists whose primary modes were non-literary and featured the work of a visual artist. [www.vanitasmagazine.net]
Through the night
It snows on the
Sierras as it does
On the grave of
Apollinaire in the
Cemetery of Père
Lachaise
And on
The radio I get
Truck music from
San Jose:
“Want to make it to
Amarillo by
Morning…”
“...Just
Because you ask me to.”
The green oak
Burns weakly
In the grate
And as I write
In the window
Of the loft
The light
Turns blue.
Cimetière du Père Lachaise, avenue in fog: photo by Lothar Streidle, 2004
Winter scene, Shipka Pass, Bulgaria: photo by psy guy, 2006
For the seventh and final issue of VANITAS, we examine the idea of The Self. The work featured in issue 7 tests just how far the self can be stretched, partially as an exercise in self-expression, partially in search of what used to be called experience. Self, not so much in personae as in faces, in the sense the Mods used the term — referring to someone with style, perhaps within a culture of style, but an individual expression of that culture, or perhaps someone who can seemingly invent her own style, just standing there.
This issue features new work by Bruce Andrews, Mary Jo Bang, Anselm Berrigan, Steve Dickison, Danielle Dutton, Tonya Foster, John Godfrey, Robert Hunter, Paolo Javier, Ann Lauterbach, Kimberly Lyons, Dan Machlin, Gerard Malanga, Judith Malina, Filip Marinovich, Harry Matthews, Michael McClure, Anna Moschovakis, Stephen Motika, Jennifer Moxley, Michael Palmer, Aram Saroyan, Lewis Warsh, and many more. Featuring artwork by Diana Michener, Carol Szymanski, Gerard Malanga, Rudy Burckhardt, and Vivien Bittencourt.
8 comments:
Another gem Tom.
Many thanks, Mike.
Simple and full of images at the same time. Quite a tribute.
Thank you Lucy. Reverdy was a solitary figure and thus perhaps not as well known as he should have been. But he remains a poet much revered in some small circles of other poets.
A glass of papaya juice
and back to work. My heart is in my
pocket, it is Poems by Pierre Reverdy.
--Frank O'Hara, "A Step Away From Them"
Jeez, I'd forgotten that Reverdy toss-off from FO. That may just be the single most enduring self-portrait that he left us. Then he left us.
Woodman,
Speaking of "then he left us", it was 43 years and ten days ago... odd to consider that's longer than the time it was given him to be on earth.
Some bits from "Reverdy" by Frank O'Hara and Bill Berkson:
"Reverdy is not like Chopin. He is a long city street with small musical houses on it.
"Picasso is fire, Reverdy is flint.
"In America there is only one other poet *beside* Reverdy: William Carlos Williams..."
Tom -- I brought up the subject of the influence of the French poets of that era (particularly Apollinaire, Reverdy, even Soupault) with Paul Mariani, the WCW biographer, and he agreed that Williams was very much aware of their writing and of course was well read in French to begin with. Bram Djikstra's book on Williams and Cubism also delves into this influence. Spring And All. Need I say more?
Pat,
That says it all... almost.
See new post up top right now, further pursuit of same unfathomable phantom.
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