tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-210141632024-03-13T03:24:57.227-07:00Stoning the Devil"Because culture is a conversation"Adam Fieledhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11909851580874856025noreply@blogger.comBlogger85125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21014163.post-71473838223305441092010-02-19T14:06:00.000-08:002020-03-09T16:52:52.617-07:00Three Apps<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />
<b>#1647</b><br />
<br />
She told me I love boy/girl poems, love<br />
scenes in them based on a deep degeneracy<br />
inherited from too much heat around my<br />
genitals, as manifest in tangents I could only<br />
see if I was getting laid. She told me this as<br />
I was getting laid in such a way that any notion<br />
<br />
of telling was subsumed in an ass as stately as<br />
a mansion, which I filled with the liquid<br />
cobwebs of my imagination. There was grass<br />
outside being smoked in a car in which another<br />
boy/girl scenario played out in a brunette giving<br />
a fine performance of Bolero in her movements,<br />
<br />
and I immediately flashed back to the deep <br />
genitals of my first girlfriend and the way she<br />
used to implore God’s help at certain moments,<br />
who was certainly watching this. That’s it, that’s<br />
the whole spiel I have on boy/girl poems and<br />
why they are hated by the dry dunces who love them. <br />
<br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>#1511</b><br />
<br />
steps up to my flat, on<br />
which we sat, tongues<br />
flailed like fins, on sea<br />
of you, not me, but we<br />
thought (or I thought)<br />
there'd be reprieve in<br />
between yours, for us<br />
to combine, you were<br />
terribly vicious, this is<br />
our end (here, amidst<br />
I and I), does she even<br />
remember this, obscure<br />
island, lost in Atlantis?<br />
<br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>#1617</b><br />
<br />
Philosophy says that poets want to lose.<br />
What are conditions of losing: to whom?<br />
The conditions (to whom they concern, to<br />
<br />
unrepresented phantoms, mostly) are colors,<br />
which, to transcribe, require a solid core of<br />
nebulous necromancy which philosophy calls<br />
<br />
(for its own poetic reasons) "loss." I took this<br />
from one strictly (which necessitated looseness<br />
towards me) for himself, took several median<br />
<br />
blended colors and painted a razor on the roof<br />
of a red building. Then I fell off. But I lived.Adam Fieledhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11909851580874856025noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21014163.post-36442852916292617622010-02-19T04:36:00.001-08:002021-06-18T16:57:50.593-07:00Apps in Jacket 40, Pirene's FountainI realize these posts are becoming slightly redundant, but nonetheless...<br />
<br />
I have some Apps, including 1345, up in <i><a href="http://jacketmagazine.com/40/fieled-from-apparition.shtml">Jacket 40</a>.</i><br />
<br />
And Apps in <i><a href="https://web.archive.org/web/20181130005127/http://www.pirenesfountain.com/archives/issue_07/current_issue/fieled.html">Pirene's Fountain</a>. </i>Many thanks to the editors.<div><br /></div><div>Reading from the Apps at the <a href="https://drive.google.com/file/d/1P44s2xFOXGD3XHMSSUfWSTOinz3DWzU2/view">Eris Temple</a>. </div>Adam Fieledhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11909851580874856025noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21014163.post-80500834834018111682010-02-17T08:08:00.000-08:002019-03-05T04:28:17.442-08:00Apps in moria poetry, Great Works<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXxJIgxG_bjroD6l4sfsby4okjJ7zJL7tQW9nl1rzgeJd66prwmI04k-LZtMjmW-9ujnuu-UdStNnJfsGHmEdkJELL_s7UYHEvTvUsvsJLLgaarPAzN8HQUwzBWBRCcQ2w_s6lxA/s1600/GreatWorksBL.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXxJIgxG_bjroD6l4sfsby4okjJ7zJL7tQW9nl1rzgeJd66prwmI04k-LZtMjmW-9ujnuu-UdStNnJfsGHmEdkJELL_s7UYHEvTvUsvsJLLgaarPAzN8HQUwzBWBRCcQ2w_s6lxA/s320/GreatWorksBL.jpg" width="226" /></a></div>
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More Apps are up in <i><a href="http://www.moriapoetry.com/fieled777.html">moria poetry</a>.</i><br />
<br />
Also in <i><a href="http://www.greatworks.org.uk/poems/fld4.html">Great Works</a></i>.<br />
<br />
Many thanks to the editors.<br />
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<br />Adam Fieledhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11909851580874856025noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21014163.post-1317652248440703952010-02-15T03:24:00.000-08:002020-09-01T07:13:39.792-07:00Break for a Week/Two Apps<br />
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<br />
I'm still recovering from completing the manuscript <a href="https://fieledsmiscellaneous.files.wordpress.com/2014/04/apparition-poems.pdf">Apparition Poems</a> in a big burst. There are still many Apps that need to be published, and are looking for homes. I've decided to take a week's vacation from blogging, as I work on a new essay for Otoliths about the Philly Free School at the <a href="http://the-otolith.blogspot.com/2010/04/poet-editors-16-adam-fieled.html">Highwire Gallery</a>. I thought as a "quick fix," I'd post two new Apps.<br />
<br />
<b>#1580</b><br />
<br />
"Waiting for the heavens to fall,<br />
what can I do with this call," this<br />
asinine pop song was written by<br />
me in a dream of you where you<br />
called me (obviously), took to be<br />
already granted what I haven't<br />
given to you yet, but experience,<br />
my love, is the only thing worth<br />
giving, and I've got that from<br />
you in spades, so when heaven<br />
falls we'll catch it, lay it between<br />
our sheets, dirty as they must be—<br />
<br />
<b>#1557</b><br />
<br />
Since you are a scorpion<br />
that stings herself to death,<br />
after so many stings, redness<br />
never leaves my joints, I feel<br />
zilch. I call this <i>your</i> passionate<br />
time, as I have no intent of<br />
tempting the scorpion again.<br />
I've seen nests for you all over<br />
Philly, from Front Street right<br />
up to Baltimore, and you know<br />
what? You might finally get the<br />
death you want. A sultry night,<br />
desert all around, legs akimbo.<br />
<br />
..................................................................................<br />
<br />
Here (as of later '10) is the book Apparition Poems placed in <a href="https://web.archive.org/web/20160223192401/https://www.poetrylibrary.org.uk/news/library/?id=683">The Poetry Library</a> at Southbank Centre, London. Thanks again to <b>Chris McCabe</b>.<br />
<br />
<br />Adam Fieledhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11909851580874856025noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21014163.post-3245463291263068052010-02-07T15:00:00.001-08:002016-12-12T12:33:40.617-08:00Apparition Poems<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIBv6EX2GeFcC0I2-7GB4w87QZhcrkHVQxbg3NCIG85KkExY2fvpyrCyGd41_EZ1JIcAj8YHUPXcCACFeDJ9xb_8tMd8uqZZHgFGU9GXLNeO0s0nPTNzrW6cACisNy0MdZU0SreA/s1600-h/marilyn_monroe_pool.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5435640532524122162" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIBv6EX2GeFcC0I2-7GB4w87QZhcrkHVQxbg3NCIG85KkExY2fvpyrCyGd41_EZ1JIcAj8YHUPXcCACFeDJ9xb_8tMd8uqZZHgFGU9GXLNeO0s0nPTNzrW6cACisNy0MdZU0SreA/s200/marilyn_monroe_pool.jpg" style="cursor: hand; cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 132px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 200px;" /></a><br />
<b>#1596</b><br />
<br />
I was talking to a dude <br />
I knew from school, I <br />
said, “I see the levels <br />
from sleeping with<br />
psychopaths, that’s <br />
how I get them,” levels <br />
were (I meant) places <br />
between souls where <br />
spaces open for metaphor, <br />
“but when I carry them <br />
over to my bed, every <br />
psychopath levels me.” <br />
<br />
<br />
<b>#1605</b><br />
<br />
This killer wears a tight <br />
black shirt, glasses. There <br />
are noises of digging happening <br />
from the bathroom, she’s in <br />
bed, hands over her mouth, <br />
frozen upset. Then, the mirror <br />
is dug through, his face appears <br />
in a wall with a square cut in it. <br />
The face is there, hovers there, <br />
just sits, it has the promise of <br />
action that kills. This is the <br />
tableau I watch every time <br />
I’m in the bathroom while <br />
she’s in bed. And smile.<br />
<br />
<br />
<b>#1625</b><br />
<br />
The "I" that writes cannot be<br />
(he told us, perched on a hill of<br />
flowers which he crushed, but, of<br />
course, incompletely, and not all of<br />
them at once) strictly for-itself as it<br />
has no substance: a student walked<br />
<br />
up, pricked his forearm (the back side<br />
of it) with a small razor, he cringed but<br />
only briefly, leaning forward so that a<br />
row of buttercups doused him yellow.<br />
The "I" that writes has a relationship<br />
that is very much for itself, but it has<br />
<br />
a strictly independent existence, so that<br />
what constitutes a human "I" has no<br />
meaning for it. Now, you need to know<br />
this: I was not the student with the razor,<br />
but I supplied the razor to the student<br />
that cut the professor's forearm, but you<br />
<br />
will never know how I got it, or why.Adam Fieledhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11909851580874856025noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21014163.post-89386449068891980572010-02-02T06:38:00.005-08:002021-06-18T20:02:24.112-07:00App 1613 on PFS Post<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOXYn6QtvbMsYGibS16zrztfJQvD_KsbqUTvZzloMnR4iAOKPfhS9-cUmhLJAgohKQCOLkUHP6LthB5tA2hDd8hR-qzTk5F8BsLm7y4ZuvN0Rif5VfQX9RyOkVg93i9_39pCQQ7g/s1600/PFSPostApps.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOXYn6QtvbMsYGibS16zrztfJQvD_KsbqUTvZzloMnR4iAOKPfhS9-cUmhLJAgohKQCOLkUHP6LthB5tA2hDd8hR-qzTk5F8BsLm7y4ZuvN0Rif5VfQX9RyOkVg93i9_39pCQQ7g/s320/PFSPostApps.jpg" width="226" /></a></div>
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I have decided to "go meta" and place <i>App 1613</i> on <i><a href="http://artrecess.blogspot.com/2016/11/adam-fieled-editor-philadelphia-pa.html">PFS Post</a></i>.<i> </i></div><p>
</p><p> App 1613 on <a href="https://images.yudu.com/item_files/3676703/App1613.mp3">mp3</a>. And <a href="https://drive.google.com/file/d/1wz0aGgD3T99NlKcPqGc1GXaJ3yx4tgVV/view">video</a> (live: Eris Temple).<br /></p>Adam Fieledhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11909851580874856025noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21014163.post-33841200983117717192010-01-28T03:46:00.004-08:002023-06-20T09:55:56.573-07:00Apps on PennSound<div style="text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzQheg0ucsLV8VSY-TOmN0HD9666WDufGMjWtLskIdl27rAl0W9VRKJdvz5NhjyN02ZQI4ZrsLCONY2lvD9vT128_Nm0BOgNec8jfJmNPu1-7YFfpH4UMwDLa-dbABPX6o4vsED21uds61FFMVRXNdYaUtvNzNWkn76mgfgwOYpqp2U-cA7vZj6Q/s6208/PennSound2023.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="6208" data-original-width="6000" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzQheg0ucsLV8VSY-TOmN0HD9666WDufGMjWtLskIdl27rAl0W9VRKJdvz5NhjyN02ZQI4ZrsLCONY2lvD9vT128_Nm0BOgNec8jfJmNPu1-7YFfpH4UMwDLa-dbABPX6o4vsED21uds61FFMVRXNdYaUtvNzNWkn76mgfgwOYpqp2U-cA7vZj6Q/s320/PennSound2023.jpg" width="309" /></a></div></div></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Proudly, recordings of me reading from my <i>Apps</i> are now up on <b>PennSound</b>, and in four segments: <a href="https://media.sas.upenn.edu/pennsound/authors/Fieled/Fieled-Adam_Apparition-Poems_2010.mp3">1</a>, <a href="https://media.sas.upenn.edu/pennsound/authors/Fieled/Fieled-Adam_Apparition-Poems-2_2-13-10.mp3">2</a>,<a href="https://media.sas.upenn.edu/pennsound/authors/Fieled/Fielded-Adam_03_Apparition-Poems_4-1-2010.mp3"> 3</a>, and <a href="https://media.sas.upenn.edu/pennsound/authors/Fieled/Fielded-Adam_04_Apparition-Poems_4-1-2010.mp3">4</a>, or my <a href="http://writing.upenn.edu/pennsound/x/Fieled.php">Author Page</a>. Recorded at the Eris Temple. Thanks again to Matt and to PennSound.</div></div><div style="text-align: center;">
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As of February 2017, here, also, are the <a href="https://media.sas.upenn.edu/pennsound/authors/Fieled/Fieled-Adam_Cheltenham-Elegies_2012.mp3">Cheltenham Elegies</a> on PennSound. </div>
Adam Fieledhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11909851580874856025noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21014163.post-89272293433814409952010-01-26T04:16:00.002-08:002023-06-25T06:10:00.288-07:00The many levels of Kristen Orser<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-GEseyO7OBvt2Bkpx_omRViFHY8a1WhqiEC93u8bZDhu4Z58MBxas7lqfQvGFjNm0nB1XnXrpWdFRA689jsWsuVRZK2jipKG1-Cr6pxAlbWt73agv1KjyoA__AC3BPi7G-dZe4Q/s1600-h/kristenorser.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5431021388038393426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-GEseyO7OBvt2Bkpx_omRViFHY8a1WhqiEC93u8bZDhu4Z58MBxas7lqfQvGFjNm0nB1XnXrpWdFRA689jsWsuVRZK2jipKG1-Cr6pxAlbWt73agv1KjyoA__AC3BPi7G-dZe4Q/s200/kristenorser.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 182px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 200px;" /></a><br /><div style="text-align: justify;">Kristen Orser’s <i>Folded Into Your Midwestern Thunderstorm</i> is just out from <b>Greying Ghost Press</b>. It is a chap that, in many ways, extends the multi-leveled, multi-layered approach I noted in Orser's earlier <a href="http://artrecess.blogspot.com/2009/03/kristen-orser-chicago-usa-well-enough.html">work</a><i>.</i> Orser displays a penchant for “doubling,” playing semantic games with phrases which take on multiple, simultaneous meanings. The prolific way Orser deposits these doubles or triple meaning phrases throughout the chap makes <i>Folded</i> a head-spinning, hallucinogenic experience. Rather than pursue a minute analysis, it might be wise just to jump in at the deep end with one of the poems. This one is called <i>Recently, The Fence</i>:</div>
<br />
<pre>A bit scary to spoon in someone’s mouth,
the marrow of anyone. We keep
the birthday party a secret: Difficult
to completely look like moon
when Mother is asking the shape—
A symbolic posture: The robin
is a story of existence. My lower garments.
I mean, I haven’t paid attention
to rhyme recognition. Which memory was first,
the chestnut or the blue egg? Winter
is half measure. From your ribcage
to your middle thigh, there’s a kind of radio silence.
Decidedly unsayable—
The mouth opens,
has limitation. </pre>
<br />
<br /><div style="text-align: justify;">The word games here are extremely sensual and intense. The first phrases alone (“A bit scary to spoon in someone’s mouth”) ricochet in several different directions. “Spooning in someone’s mouth” evokes a lover actually giving his/her mate a taste of something; there is also the unlikely image of two lovers spooning in a third person’s mouth. There’s a pun on the more graphic/literal/gutter-minded “spooge,” which alters the perspective of the poem drastically. At this point, directly in the first line, the reader must choose from a plethora of meanings, or make the tricky decision to engage all the levels at once. The next, characteristically mind-bending Kristen Orser moment in this poem is “We keep/ the birthday party a secret.” For the informed reader, “birthday party” immediately triples: “birthday party” could be a literal birthday party, or a sexual encounter (as in, two lovers in their birthday suits). The doublings and triplings in Orser’s chap are phantasmagoric, and also amusing. Orser manifests a unique sensibility, and the chap is magnified, gravitas-wise, with each re-reading, even as the mood is <a href="http://artrecess.blogspot.com/2016/07/kristen-orser-chicago-usa-three-poems.html">comparatively</a> light. She melds the hyper-sexual with the bizarre. I recommend this chap to anyone with an interest in sex, or word-games, or both (apart or together).</div>Adam Fieledhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11909851580874856025noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21014163.post-4677639794124426512010-01-24T15:22:00.000-08:002020-09-25T15:42:34.861-07:00New Apps<br />
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<b>#1562</b></div>
<br />
“In Your Eyes,” the song goes,<br />
“the resolution of all my fruitless<br />
searches,” only what I see in your<br />
<br />
eyes <i>is</i> fruitless, and what Shelley<br />
might have called “luminous green<br />
orbs” look like turbid wastelands,<br />
<br />
capable of ruining any day I might<br />
have you nipping at my heels. This<br />
is what I think about her, but don’t<br />
<br />
dare say, she’s too young to know<br />
anything about wastelands, I’m an<br />
old scorpion with mud of my own.<br />
<br />
<br />
<b>#1497</b><br />
<br />
nothingness grows vast,<br />
nothingness tastes sweet<br />
only for ten seconds...of<br />
<br />
this, depth without depth,<br />
crass substitute for realms<br />
of total glory she effaces<br />
<br />
(once spilled milk cries)<br />
like a chalk-stain on blue<br />
jeans, a just-smoked joint. <br />
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<b>#1576</b><br />
<br />
Who told poets to be poets?<br />
Nobody tells anyone things <br />
like this anymore— Poetess,<br />
she comes to me with “this,”<br />
it’s all wine and roses for two<br />
nights, but I’m left dizzy— is<br />
this the end of poetry? There’s<br />
a war between poetry & sex, it’s<br />
always sex’s dominance we fight,<br />
she tells me this, but we still make<br />
love. And it’s good & hard. I’m<br />
pure in this, I tell myself. I know<br />
what I’m doing. I do, too, in ways<br />
limited by perspectives, of which<br />
this is half of one. Is it enough?Adam Fieledhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11909851580874856025noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21014163.post-11381171111474013342010-01-11T04:07:00.002-08:002022-11-25T11:13:43.467-08:00Apparition Poem #555<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhoh10gX9JJgqS3dFBVhR8n9Syn7zE045jguZ1udWkI2sU948KFxmc0a9Ju58tpjBqoUPxQaZX5-mB9TdlgqcqP2956V4-8O41_FnbdnrPzZXkGJw7SMEBKRrfQd7vWs0zBhprh9Q/s1600/MaryHTiltShift2.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="643" data-original-width="800" height="257" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhoh10gX9JJgqS3dFBVhR8n9Syn7zE045jguZ1udWkI2sU948KFxmc0a9Ju58tpjBqoUPxQaZX5-mB9TdlgqcqP2956V4-8O41_FnbdnrPzZXkGJw7SMEBKRrfQd7vWs0zBhprh9Q/s320/MaryHTiltShift2.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<b>#555</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
Wood-floored bar on Rue St. Catharine—<br />
you danced, I sat, soused as Herod,<br />
sipped vodka tonic, endless bland<br />
medley belting out of the jukebox—<br />
you smiling, I occupied keeping you happy,<br />
un-frazzled— suddenly sounds behind us,<br />
the bar wasn't crowded & a patron<br />
(rakish, whiskey-flecked big mouth)<br />
lifted a forefinger at beer-bellied<br />
bartender bitching back, soon a real<br />
fight, violence in quiet midnight,<br />
I, scared, got you out of there<br />
<br />
but you had to dance, you said,<br />
had to dance so we paved Plateau, tense steps,<br />
found nothing, you started crying & stamping<br />
your feet like a child, I grabbed you & dragged<br />
you back to our room you stripped, curled<br />
into fetal position, beat your fists against<br />
the mattress, in this way you danced<br />
through the night, dozed & woke ready for more—<br />
<br />
<br /><br />More Apps (including 1345) will be coming out in Jacket Magazine sometime this <a href="https://perma.cc/MC95-J9UX">spring</a>.Adam Fieledhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11909851580874856025noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21014163.post-23370537258272272932009-12-31T06:16:00.001-08:002016-12-12T12:36:03.844-08:00Two Last Apps for 2009<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbA3Y1mTOcBPdEV1d8tbeQH4kYQMxrfAwlD1bmH07J_cVzwjfTS7svAYsfJdY2wAPX52wgCvQOR9ejA7GAnZdlfS8rkpcqO0yMvQmKOFXVm5mzmhwhQZXxv4S4RzsyzQFWDvgm1w/s1600/Neko3.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5481244096987637522" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbA3Y1mTOcBPdEV1d8tbeQH4kYQMxrfAwlD1bmH07J_cVzwjfTS7svAYsfJdY2wAPX52wgCvQOR9ejA7GAnZdlfS8rkpcqO0yMvQmKOFXVm5mzmhwhQZXxv4S4RzsyzQFWDvgm1w/s200/Neko3.jpg" style="cursor: hand; cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 200px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 135px;" /></a><br />
<b>#1491</b><br />
<br />
To wake up in frost,<br />
ineffectual sun up in<br />
blue sky bruised gray,<br />
is to huddle into these<br />
words, burrow down in<br />
them until you hit a spot<br />
of warmth, like memories<br />
stuck like bark to roots,<br />
of this or that, of she or<br />
her, if this trope is over-<br />
worn so be it, I’ve had<br />
enough of pretending<br />
this crux isn’t one, so<br />
I’ll lean into it, again—<br />
<br />
<br />
<b>#1080</b><br />
<br />
If I had Neko Case<br />
for one night, I’d <br />
dip her red hair in <br />
red wine, suck it <br />
dry, bathe<br />
her in<br />
honey,<br />
dive<br />
into what’s <br />
pink and blue,<br />
roll out the red carpet.<br />
<br />
If I had Neko Case<br />
for one night, I’d<br />
part the Red Sea<br />
to make her<br />
come, come<br />
pangs,<br />
needles,<br />
she’s<br />
stiff from<br />
ecstasy, I’m<br />
freckle-fucked.<br />
<br />
If I had Neko Case<br />
I would never<br />
leave my bed<br />
again; I’d lay,<br />
awake to<br />
music,<br />
voices,<br />
ether,<br />
never doubt<br />
Heaven exists<br />
on Earth, between<br />
<br />
throats, notes, legs.Adam Fieledhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11909851580874856025noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21014163.post-9044504846893665912009-12-28T06:36:00.001-08:002023-09-27T06:42:48.891-07:00Essay in The Argotist: "On the Necessity of Bad Reviews"<b>Jeffrey Side</b> has published a new essay of mine, <i>On the Necessity of Bad Reviews</i>, in <i><a href="https://www.webarchive.org.uk/wayback/archive/20200418095504/http://www.argotistonline.co.uk/Fieled%20essay.htm">The Argotist Online</a></i>.<br />
<br />
Also in <i>The Argotist Online</i>; an interview with me, as editor of <i>P.F.S. Post</i>, on Net <a href="https://www.webarchive.org.uk/wayback/archive/20210509103626/https://www.argotistonline.co.uk/Adam%20Fieled.htm">publishing</a>.<br />
<br />
To Jeffrey, many thanks.Adam Fieledhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11909851580874856025noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21014163.post-20328157854528311852009-12-28T04:04:00.001-08:002020-09-23T14:21:34.748-07:00Apps for Winter<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUj_hV60HQFJCl2yiMpMci2iUKJPlDQC6VouxcSraQXXJ4NcniyJb8pAIK5e0QbjNft41VlsUaOzldn6rE8_pERIxobdzOP1ucRUT3o3zrthyphenhyphenoaGl1J6890OccK5fkoFdzLAwpJw/s1600/Kelly_Drive___Philadelphia.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="900" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUj_hV60HQFJCl2yiMpMci2iUKJPlDQC6VouxcSraQXXJ4NcniyJb8pAIK5e0QbjNft41VlsUaOzldn6rE8_pERIxobdzOP1ucRUT3o3zrthyphenhyphenoaGl1J6890OccK5fkoFdzLAwpJw/s320/Kelly_Drive___Philadelphia.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
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<b>#1649</b><br />
<br />
Oh you guys, you guys are tough.<br />
I came here to write about some<br />
thing, but now that I came, I can’t<br />
come to a decision about what I<br />
<br />
came for. What? You said I can’t<br />
do this? You said it’s not possible<br />
because it’s a violation and not a<br />
moving one? It’s true, you guys <br />
<br />
are tough. You know I have tried,<br />
at different times, to please you in<br />
little ways, but this one time I had<br />
this student that was giving me head<br />
<br />
and she stopped in the middle to tell<br />
me that I had good taste and you had<br />
bad taste, and I’ll admit it, I believed<br />
her. She was your student too, maybe<br />
<br />
you’ve seen her around. She’s the one<br />
with the scarves and the jewelry and<br />
the jewels and the courtesy to give the<br />
teachers head who deserve it. Do you?<br />
<br />
<br />
<b>#1603</b><br />
<br />
"Be careful what you handle,"<br />
I told her, "you can get to me<br />
even if you touch another," it<br />
happened in an office shaped<br />
like the foyer of a huge hovel,<br />
built of mud, etchings of bugs<br />
on the wall, perfect perverse<br />
kids scampering among clods.<br />
<br />
"You know what I want, and<br />
how I can get it," she replied,<br />
as she took another out, put<br />
me in, but only inside a brain<br />
used amiss to find a level that,<br />
shaped like a foyer, was past<br />
office, into brick, sans mud.<br />
<br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>#1341</b><br />
<br />
Secrets whispered behind us<br />
have a cheapness to bind us<br />
to liquors, but may blind us<br />
to possibilities of what deep<br />
secrets are lost in pursuit of<br />
an ultimate drunkenness that<br />
reflects off surfaces like dead<br />
fishes at the bottom of filthy<br />
rivers— what goes up most is<br />
just the imperviousness gained<br />
by walking down streets, tipsy,<br />
which I did as I said this to her,<br />
over the Schuylkill, two fishes. <br />
<br />
<br />
<b>#1488</b><br />
<br />
liquor store, linoleum<br />
floor, wine she chose<br />
was always deep red,<br />
dark, bitter aftertaste,<br />
unlike her bare torso,<br />
which has in it<br />
all that ever was<br />
of drunkenness<span style="font-family: "garamond"; font-size: 12pt;">—</span><br />
to miss someone terribly,<br />
to both still be in love, as<br />
she severs things because<br />
she thinks she must<span style="font-family: "garamond"; font-size: 12pt;">—</span><br />
exquisite torture, it's<br />
a different bare torso,<br />
(my own) that's incarnadine<span style="font-family: "garamond"; font-size: 12pt;">—</span><br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Adam Fieledhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11909851580874856025noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21014163.post-56135255938186782882009-12-16T13:21:00.001-08:002023-06-25T06:14:31.510-07:00Chaps<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXECrjTUF7qGYSTq6S_3MknvW30Dljz9Y9Cr5FjF63m2CcBUAjzReSsEnEDbPEEoiMRx4CsfFvDg6ZIZeq9QZr6DBsrtXQhIjWe46UwQaL9WNdwSpqbX2-MJbV9878NBVWA2nATA/s1600-h/JulietChaps.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5415947366123315442" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXECrjTUF7qGYSTq6S_3MknvW30Dljz9Y9Cr5FjF63m2CcBUAjzReSsEnEDbPEEoiMRx4CsfFvDg6ZIZeq9QZr6DBsrtXQhIjWe46UwQaL9WNdwSpqbX2-MJbV9878NBVWA2nATA/s200/JulietChaps.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 145px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 200px;" /></a><br /><div style="text-align: justify;">Chaps, poetry chapbooks, are portable, cheap, and perfect for poets who write short, compressed, serial material. An advantage of chaps is a certain organic quality they can have, when they’re made by hand. <b>Juliet Cook's </b>chaps (and the soft-bound journals she publishes) all have this kind of organic quality which books cannot, and the way Juliet packages things make them seem like <b>Dickinsonian</b> “fascicles,” rather than products off a conveyor built: pre-made, pre-processed, delivered with clinical precision and not much feeling. I have a <b>Nick Moudry </b>chap called <i>High Noon </i>which looks like it was tied together with a kind of sewn thread; <i><a href="http://artrecess.blogspot.com/2006/05/nick-moudry-philly-usa-high-noon.html">High Noon</a> </i>is a nice little <a href="https://web.archive.org/web/20070706033820/http://adamfieled.blogspot.com/2006/05/nick-moudrys-high-noon.html">poem</a>, and I can’t imagine it taking any other physical form, as delicate and tiny as the chap is. Some cohesive units are just too small to be books— Brooklyn Copeland's chaps are a good example of this. Again, there’s preciousness (in the non-pejorative sense of the word) to these chaps that I find irreplaceable, and that I cannot designate as “minor.”</div>
<br /><div style="text-align: justify;">On the other hand, I will admit to having soured slightly on e-chaps. I like what Andrew Lundwall and Lars Palm have done with their e-chap presses— they are both competent editors— but generally, I’ve been finding e-chaps unsatisfying. There are genuine credibility issues with e-chaps— enough to make me think twice about publishing another one. Publishing in online journals is different; there’s more a sense of healthy limitation. But e-chaps are difficult, because the brevity of the form, combined with the difficulties in reading sustained things on the Net, can be irritating. I find e-books easier to read, because you can prepare yourself for them. The same applies to lengthy articles in journals like Jacket. The issue with chaps is that their substantiality as tactile products balances their small size and the compressed nature of what they contain. E-chaps are small, compressed, and non-tactile. They are also taken out of the context of a journal format. It’s just so easy for poets to knock out ten or fifteen poems and publish them as an e-chap. Poets tend to use e-chaps to publish their secondary work (though this is not always the case, as with Andrew and Lars’ presses, and many Ungovernable releases, including mine, are more like e-books). Then, “quick fix” folks on the fringes of the poetry world make snap judgments about certain poets based on their e-chaps. This has happened to me, and to others I know. So, to use the dread designations, print chaps to me are “major” while, for the most part, e-chaps are “minor,” though perhaps the advent of the Kindle will change things around again.</div>Adam Fieledhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11909851580874856025noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21014163.post-27060922572273995812009-12-09T01:58:00.002-08:002022-11-25T11:15:01.233-08:00Apparition Poem #1335<br />
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<br />
<br /><b>#1335</b><br />
<br />
terse as this is, it is<br />
given to us in bits<br />
carelessly shorn<br />
from rocky slopes,<br />
of this I can only<br />
say nothing comes<br />
with things built in,<br />
it’s always sharp edges,<br />
crevices, crags, precipice,<br />
abrupt plunges into “wants,”<br />
what subsists between us<br />
happens in canyons lined<br />
in blue waters where this<br />
slides down to a dense<br />
bottom, I can’t retrieve<br />
you twice in the same<br />
way, it must be terse<br />
because real is terse,<br />
tense because it’s so<br />
frail, pine cones held<br />
in a child’s hand, snapped.<br />
<br />
<br />
P.S. A new interview with me on <a href="https://drive.google.com/file/d/1HdKsUaPgOQ1VPwOf0JwIhPkhSQd2lMrE/view">Goss 183</a>.<br />
<br />
<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
<br />Adam Fieledhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11909851580874856025noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21014163.post-66959267184990073282009-12-06T02:44:00.000-08:002018-04-22T13:24:08.639-07:00New in The Argotist Online<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />
Several of my new Apparition Poems (more added in '17) have just come out in <a href="https://www.webarchive.org.uk/wayback/archive/20170701061618/http://www.argotistonline.co.uk/Fieled%20poems.htm">The Argotist Online</a>,<i> </i>the excellent online UK journal edited by <b>Jeffrey Side</b>. Thanks to Jeffrey, who has, also, a new piece in <a href="http://artrecess.blogspot.com/2009/12/jeffrey-side-uk-semantic-limitations-of.html">PFS Post</a>.</div>
Adam Fieledhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11909851580874856025noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21014163.post-82808400298881148862009-11-23T00:42:00.003-08:002021-06-18T12:08:43.602-07:00Four New Apps<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />
<b>#1514</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
You can't<br />
get it when<br />
you want it,<br />
but when I<br />
want it I get<br />
it; she rolled<br />
over on her<br />
belly, which<br />
was very full,<br />
and slept; its<br />
just shadows<br />
on the wall, I<br />
thought, dark.<br />
<br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>#565</b><br />
<b><br /></b>Battle for deliverance,<br />
struggle for salvation,<br />
Christ's passion condensed<br />
into ten fluid seconds,<br />
sections of flesh leaving,<br />
sense of "Geist" overhead.<br />
Yet you've shrunk before<br />
Romance into "post-<br />
everything entropy," so<br />
even the love of one's<br />
life becomes another show,<br />
rigged like a government's<br />
actions, glommed onto<br />
deadly ennui. Christ.<br />
<br />
<br />
<b>#1601</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
What words get sent up<br />
on sharp frequencies are<br />
fractious, bent from pain,<br />
Hephaestus in iron-groans,<br />
what goes up sticks around,<br />
so that base/top get covered,<br />
<br />
all things resonate like pitch-<br />
forks, tweaked by conductors<br />
before their final, triumphant<br />
performance for a hall empty<br />
of bodies, filled to capacity.<br />
<br />
<br />
<b>#1604</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
Here's where shifts (red shifts)<br />
happen in perspective, I thought,<br />
slopping dark meat onto my plate,<br />
here's where angles converge to<br />
put me past the nest. General<br />
laughter over pictures, womb-<br />
like spaces, but I was in hers as<br />
I was in with them. It hurts, but<br />
he's dead, I never met him. It's<br />
a shame, I never met him. Blood<br />
moves through air: between her,<br />
me, them— leaves on concrete.<br />
<br />
<br />
P.S. Earlier <a href="https://drive.google.com/file/d/1MVbtyRln4hBZXC3j5ip3-r5mel7mLAjy/view">Apparition Poems</a>, from Beams/Jacket 31, in The & Now Awards Anthology: The Best Innovative Writing, from <a href="https://web.archive.org/web/20110911231613/https://www.lakeforest.edu/academics/programs/english/press/books/andnowawards.php">Lake Forest College Press</a>, in conjunction with <a href="https://web.archive.org/web/20110824105716/http://nupress.northwestern.edu/Title/tabid/68/ISBN/0-9823156-0-0/Default.aspx">Northwestern University Press</a>. And being taught at the University of Oregon by <a href="https://drive.google.com/file/d/18iUqvhqCYvIELnF7WBdS6HE4hZsKcMns/view">John Witte</a>.Adam Fieledhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11909851580874856025noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21014163.post-81525452078836732692009-10-15T05:27:00.002-07:002023-06-25T06:15:03.943-07:00No Recess...<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMnfYFc3CGUsy2IDfnmhhWkrkIASq0gXmc9Q3rAeu-aKGr8-smXJyxZdRoX1YlTOmT6LgENnyMOtm7Nh3DsvjaRnbjbIwUsUrkzC33FTXCPmcA88qpHRcLhzfwLM0Cib2_wBkk_Q/s1600-h/calvinhobbes.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5392802356329601986" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMnfYFc3CGUsy2IDfnmhhWkrkIASq0gXmc9Q3rAeu-aKGr8-smXJyxZdRoX1YlTOmT6LgENnyMOtm7Nh3DsvjaRnbjbIwUsUrkzC33FTXCPmcA88qpHRcLhzfwLM0Cib2_wBkk_Q/s200/calvinhobbes.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 200px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 165px;" /></a><br /><div style="text-align: justify;">What people mostly do on the Net is read (and write). Fortunately or unfortunately, most of what they read is not what could reasonably called "art." Blogs, web-sites, Wiki entries, sports sites, fan sites for bands, movie stars, movies; that seems to be mostly what people are looking at. If there were more "art texts" on the Net, would people be reading them? It all goes back to something fundamental about Western society, as it exists in 2009; most people learn early that serious reading is done in school. People associate literature with high school, college, and graduate school classrooms. It isn't just that literature is thought of as "school"; the layers of staid veneration with which these texts are treated in the classroom make the vibe much more like Sunday School. Depending who you ask, this could be considered a problem (and a societal liability) or not. I, personally, wish poems were much more than an "academic religion," indoctrinated into students who soon forget what they've learned.</div>
<br /><div style="text-align: justify;">It would be nice if the Net could engender a new breed of serious reader, capable of appreciation and analysis away from the classroom. Part of the problem (as I see it) is that many professors themselves believe in the religious conflation of literature and academia. Where literature is concerned, is school necessarily a "real" place? Privileging academia, where literature is concerned, is putting the cart before the horse. Writers write to edify the brains of their audience, not to have their work force-fed to unwilling victims. All art is meant to restore the liveliness to life, not to restore material to a professor who needs fodder for a survey course or a conference. The situation, down the ages, is really chicken or the egg: are people not reading because they're tired of being force-fed, or are they being force-fed because they're unwilling (even unable) to read on their own? The answer, I'm sure, is somewhere in the middle. But academics get so deeply involved in academia that the notion of a Reading Public (not just groveling students) leaves the picture altogether. It also neatly avoids the issue of relevance. I don't just let the general public off the hook: I think the decision not to read is a lazy one, and, without back-peddling into sterile pessimism, it seems like a kind of cultural degeneration is going on. Two hundred years ago, there was little to do <i>but</i> read; now, we have more amusements then any one person has time for. Still, I'd argue that for general enrichment, on the greatest number of possible levels, it's hard to beat reading. Maybe people being force-fed literature is not such a bad thing. But I sure would be gratified if that "luxuriant misgrowth," a Reading Public, would declare itself to the world.</div>Adam Fieledhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11909851580874856025noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21014163.post-32699089729084806062009-09-30T03:51:00.001-07:002020-08-29T12:30:57.357-07:00Early Fall Apparition Poems<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<b>#1223</b></div>
<br />
She was seated at a desk,<br />
giving a dramatic speech<br />
(pronounced with acidic<br />
bitterness), glaring at me,<br />
I was punching a telephone,<br />
trying to reach Dominique,<br />
who had given me a phony<br />
number, while two young,<br />
androgynous sprites made<br />
love in a chair, Leonard<br />
joined my committee—<br />
<br />
she was seated at a desk,<br />
her voice rose to a pitch I<br />
couldn’t tolerate, but also<br />
it brought me to the verge<br />
of orgasm, because she was<br />
sucking myself out of me,<br />
doing it psychically, when<br />
I woke up, she was updating<br />
her Face about lost sleep—<br />
<br />
<br />
<b>#1168</b><br />
<br />
The essential philosophical question<br />
is incredibly stupid—<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p> </o:p>why is it that things happen? You can</div>
ask a thousand times,<br />
it won't matter— nothing does, except<br />
these things that<br />
keep happening, "around" philosophy.<br />
<br />
<br />
<b>#1510</b><br />
<br />
Sky of mud, what we<br />
have placed in you is<br />
much more rank than<br />
any rapist ever put in<br />
prone woman— like<br />
a race of rapists, we<br />
have prowled earth in<br />
search of womb-like<br />
comforts, sent vapors<br />
into ether just to get<br />
someplace sans loss<br />
of time, expense; for<br />
us, no defense, death—<br />
as rapists, caged, gored.Adam Fieledhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11909851580874856025noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21014163.post-29258390393908208902009-09-15T16:09:00.000-07:002020-08-29T12:31:55.212-07:00New Apps<br />
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<b>#1134</b><br />
<br />
It is by dint of great labor<br />
that lines heap up on one<br />
another (enjambed or not),<br />
<br />
it is by dint of great labor<br />
that they take on the cast,<br />
die, substance that sticks,<br />
<br />
it is by dint of great labor<br />
that poets must forget this,<br />
because to stick means not<br />
<br />
to stick, it means to loosen<br />
perpetually out of grooves,<br />
let things topple into place,<br />
<br />
let shapes manifest slowly,<br />
let life meander, be rolling—<br />
<br />
<br />
<b>#1145</b><br />
<br />
The Tower of Verse<br />
is a Babel, no one pays<br />
their rent, many leap<br />
from windows to sure<br />
death, many leave, yet<br />
there is a strange sense<br />
of satisfaction given to<br />
those who stay, and it<br />
is merely this—<br />
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<o:p> </o:p> clean windows</div>
allow us to see<br />
wisps of smoke,<br />
(grey, red, turbid)<br />
rise from ashes—<br />
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<br />
<br />
<b>#1103</b><br />
<br />
As a child, I<br />
reached up,<br />
towards my<br />
Mother; as<br />
<br />
a man, as I<br />
reach, I am<br />
deep down<br />
in earth, or<br />
<br />
I reach out<br />
to find air,<br />
nothing to<br />
mother me,<br />
<br />
emptiness,<br />
soot & ash.Adam Fieledhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11909851580874856025noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21014163.post-44266556103237508102009-09-05T17:35:00.001-07:002023-06-25T06:15:22.316-07:00Death Paintings by Dario Argento<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvjCzJ0voqg8TFcEPE7VaVx7Q9Vp4sdZczojsScOuOKT6T2wQbWK1z0RTjZjSsfP_3q6jbT12saSHgvdF39mqhCBEcsAmtIPIfdei4arxBCv1S2VHRZ_maotYvaB89-hv45rrMCg/s1600-h/suspiria-21.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5378146703346115602" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvjCzJ0voqg8TFcEPE7VaVx7Q9Vp4sdZczojsScOuOKT6T2wQbWK1z0RTjZjSsfP_3q6jbT12saSHgvdF39mqhCBEcsAmtIPIfdei4arxBCv1S2VHRZ_maotYvaB89-hv45rrMCg/s200/suspiria-21.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 134px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 200px;" /></a><br /><div style="text-align: justify;">What would happen if <b>Bonnard (</b>or<b> <a href="https://fieledsmiscellaneous.files.wordpress.com/2014/05/nine-paintings-by-abby-heller-burnham.pdf">Heller-Burnham</a>)</b> decided to paint the <i>Texas Chainsaw Massacre</i>? The result might be something like <b>Dario Argento’s</b> <i>Suspiria</i>, a cult classic dating from the mid 1970s. The average horror movie has, as its foundation, two elements: death and the revelation of secrets. <i>Suspiria</i> expands upon this to include two other key elements: space and color. Ultimately, it is Argento’s use of space and color that lifts <i>Suspiria</i> out of the realm of the banal and into the realm of art. The most stunning cinematographic moments in the movie seem to revolve around corpses and death scenes; Argento crafts gorgeous “death paintings” from gore, blood, and lurid lighting. He also repeatedly evokes <b>Poe’s</b> <i>Masque of the Red Death</i>. In short, this movie is a visual feast, and almost every shot has a painterly quality. So much so, actually, that (for me at least) it’s a little hard to take in all at once. The only criticism I have of this gem is that it sags in the middle. But it would be pretty hard to beat either the first or the last fifteen minutes for pure ambience, gorgeousness, tension, and <i>death painting ecstasy</i>.</div>Adam Fieledhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11909851580874856025noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21014163.post-91780400687736025512009-09-01T17:00:00.002-07:002023-06-25T06:15:41.382-07:00John Carpenter's The Thing<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJTX5ddQWzaOqBFYgRe1OKeCj4kW6Ntlq0Yk9HwGs78xwSfCIINhk45nf9IC8p_wHrhfAfJmVYZd3SbwBusZq8TSXnmxWnUbz8nRwyKT1MEnVNgyQNfc0KSLXG9cZpDSHkF-hkLg/s1600-h/kurtrussell.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5376653288690218722" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJTX5ddQWzaOqBFYgRe1OKeCj4kW6Ntlq0Yk9HwGs78xwSfCIINhk45nf9IC8p_wHrhfAfJmVYZd3SbwBusZq8TSXnmxWnUbz8nRwyKT1MEnVNgyQNfc0KSLXG9cZpDSHkF-hkLg/s200/kurtrussell.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 136px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 200px;" /></a><br /><div style="text-align: justify;">I'm not sure why I seem to be going through a horror movie fetish. Is it the horror of dealing with insurance companies? Is horror built into the Zeitgeist of 2009? And will someone please tell me where good <i>horror poetry</i> is being written (besides Philadelphia)? In any case, <b>John Carpenter's</b> <i>The Thing</i> is a classic of the genre. <b>Kurt Russell</b> gives a riveting performance as <b>MacReady</b>, a true hero in a genre that produces few true heroes (unless you want to valorize <b>Jason Vorhees</b>). The story involves courage, reserve, and deep strength; it transcends some of the movie's garish special effects.</div>Adam Fieledhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11909851580874856025noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21014163.post-32430734351757162582009-08-12T12:14:00.001-07:002023-06-25T06:16:08.263-07:00Emotion and Preservation<br />
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<br /><div style="text-align: justify;">Preservation of art is essentially a <i>social</i> phenomenon. It happens through a social nexus and a social context— through an Other, or (usually) many Others. Put simply, preservation is the result of people wanting to preserve your work. What motivates this process? Why do certain poets inspire this dedication while others do not? It depends what we may find at the root of dedication (to a poet or to any artist.) The question arises (and it is an uneasy one) whether dedication is more emotional or intellectual, more about feelings or thoughts, or whether it is caught somewhere in between. My own sense is that this kind of (internal, psychological) scaffolding is more affective than intellectual. It is a <i>compelling emotional drive</i>. That is why poetry which demonstrates little affect would seem to have meager chance for continued life over a long period of time— decades, centuries. Why would anyone want to preserve you, if you have no emotional gravitas? Who's going to develop an affective drive to resuscitate you?</div>
<br /><div style="text-align: justify;">Of course, there is no affectivity in <b>Kant </b>either. But philosophy engenders a very different horizon of expectations— cognitive complexity is a <i>sine qua non</i>, and affective flatness is desirable. There are moving passages in <b>Kierkegaard, Buber, Sartre</b>, but they usually result from rhetorical flourishes, rather than demonstrated passion (though these two sometimes merge, and it can be hard to tell the difference.) Purely intellectual poetry falls between two stools— it lacks the intellectual rigor of philosophical discourse, and the emotional gravitas that usually attends durable verse. I think that most poetry which survives for any length of time generates an implicit affective compact between reader and poet (or, to be more deconstructive, reader and text). Those who preserve poetry do so because someone has engendered an emotional reaction and attachment in them. Engendering emotional reactions is one point of <a href="https://perma.cc/4C3K-2T9F">App 1488</a> and some of my other, earlier work; and the more recent portions of my work, which have to do with form and avant-gardism, engender their own difficulties, in the composition process, when emotion still needs to be accounted for somewhere.</div>
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<br />Adam Fieledhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11909851580874856025noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21014163.post-10761263515273812782009-08-04T05:52:00.002-07:002023-06-25T06:16:25.962-07:00On Shelley's Birthday<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqo3s2yyp6wPaEunrctidzVYSh3Q5cASQVj1QqauRT4iDC04Pn5Qv2_5nW7hSj80UGnwa3INGNaqMZphIzvUiyH0LHQZPe9I50-kYcQSCwalz2Xf_3SlJo6_Uyd077U6BgR3Kz_w/s1600-h/shelley1.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5366090766483177538" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqo3s2yyp6wPaEunrctidzVYSh3Q5cASQVj1QqauRT4iDC04Pn5Qv2_5nW7hSj80UGnwa3INGNaqMZphIzvUiyH0LHQZPe9I50-kYcQSCwalz2Xf_3SlJo6_Uyd077U6BgR3Kz_w/s200/shelley1.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 200px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 188px;" /></a><br /><div style="text-align: justify;">This weekend, I was in New York to do a <a href="http://archive.upcoming.org/event/stain-of-poetry-presents-brolaski-fieled-gordon-hightower-stackhouse-and-wolach-goodbye-blue-monday-4165385">reading in Brooklyn</a>, and I got my first chance to talk in depth to <b>Nada Gordon</b>, a member of the <i>Flarf Collective</i>. It was a stimulating, if invective-laden, conversation, but my opinion remains unchanged— I don't think that flarf makes for the creation of memorable (or even coherent) poetry, and I fail to see how it adds (as <b>Warhol</b> and <b>Koons</b> don't add) to the <b>Duchamp</b> paradigm (of the "ready-made") that was put into place one-hundred years ago. It's presented again here, in a mystifying fashion, as something new: <i>anti-art</i>. Anti-artists always seem to envision themselves on the crest of a wave towards a new shore where durability doesn't matter anymore; but how retrograde is it to want to produce a durable body of work? Most manifestations of a post-modern sensibility encourage a sense of ephemerality, transience, "positive obsolescence." Post-modernists often tend to adopt the opinion that any other mode of perception is backwards; though, if the tide turns in my direction, this theoretical approach may itself be perceived as junky and corny. Anti-art <i>is</i> junky and corny. Who wants a permanent ticket to watch the empress & emperor wear no clothes forever? And here I am developing a new philosophy of <a href="https://perma.cc/FQ9J-7ZSM">readings</a>.</div>
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<br />Adam Fieledhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11909851580874856025noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21014163.post-321040039610892952009-07-14T06:29:00.001-07:002021-11-08T17:13:25.467-08:00Jacket 37: Eight Pages on When You Bit.../ When You Bit... at Southbank Centre<br />
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You can read an eight-page review of my book <i>When You Bit... </i>written by UK poet/Argotist Online editor <b>Jeffrey Side</b>, in <i><a href="http://jacketmagazine.com/37/r-fieled-rb-side.shtml">Jacket 37</a></i>.<i> </i></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Many thanks, Jeff (and thanks <a href="https://www.webarchive.org.uk/wayback/archive/20180606215057/http://www.argotistonline.co.uk/COLLECTED%20POETRY%20REVIEWS%202004-2013.pdf">again</a>); and to <a href="https://webarchive.nla.gov.au/wayback/20090925080230/http://jacketmagazine.com/37/r-fieled-rb-side.shtml">Trove</a>, <a href="http://jacket1.writing.upenn.edu/37/r-fieled-rb-side.shtml">U Penn archive</a>.</div>
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Also, When You Bit... has been placed at <a href="https://web.archive.org/web/20150924074944/https://www.poetrylibrary.org.uk/news/library/?id=395">The Poetry Library</a> at the Southbank Centre in London. Many thanks to <b>Chris McCabe</b>. </div>
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<br />Adam Fieledhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11909851580874856025noreply@blogger.com1