I apologize, as of now, yes, right now, I apologize for that, although I want to be in this text, this prosaic, polemics, poetics, it’s so wrong, really, that I too will be seen, so I ‘re sorry, and I apologize for some incomprehensible pieces that will meet your eyes, but it’s so nowadays, so be patient. Poetry has vanished from the scene. The poetry is dead. The poetry is as dead as the euro. Poetry has been replaced by repetitions, deconstruction, and New York Times discourse. Poetry bleeding. Poetry’s heart is on the ground and prose jumps on it, as if it were a trampoline. So let it. So trumpeted the message out. If poetry’s vulnerability and the responsibility of publishers, we can discuss ad infinitum, so that we leave behind. One should, as it should be, beware of using “I“ in texts like this, but since I have already made a fool of myself and will certainly be rejected, I can just as well stay up to admit that I have been unfaithful. It was a while ago now. An affair is always going longer than they intend. So, here’s the recognition: I lie rather than fucking with prose poetry. Yes, I fucked out, as most people did in the 90s. It’s terrible really, and the shame that spreads ought by now to have been released in debt, so as always, but sometimes, admittedly, is I was not even with them, no, I’m just sitting there, rolling your thumbs, fully clothed she lies there naked and portrayed, fills library after library, relegated to the basement, magazines and shady company, and actually maybe it’s an even bigger mockery of the movement which is said to be relegated to the fringes of literature economy’s center, I was just sitting there, refuses to touch her, just my eyes, she’s worth, and maybe I should not say this, but there is something very nice to be a disappointment, and although it is hard when days of peace and rhyme flows past who lost keychains so it is usually life itself that betrays a most, and you may want to know why, the sad and simple answer, which in most decision anxiety cases, the money is the answer, the money that attracts, there are no future in that rhyme, there is no to get in being faithful, and the strange, that after each affair is received with open arms, my own arms. Money, yes, cash is king. On leaving most or lose the most, is the one who wins in the end, or as they say in Iceland, poetry is my mistress, prose who I hold in your hand when volcanoes squirts his ordmagma, or something like that, I do not know if they say so in Iceland, but this text will be so much more credible if I throw in something like this. The use of “I” in this text should not be confused with a taken for granted subjectivity, as Waldrop points out, but “I” indicates only that something happens, that language takes place. The wise, the prestige filled, you idiot proudly remarking that this piece is an affair, because now is the time to once again focus on the infidelity that I hang myself to all too often, this cheating seems obvious, emerges as the most, now, yes here we go, and soon we will leave this impassioned and move on to some form of poetry again, this subjectivity, identity, poetrose, has been advocating room long enough, and if you, like me, believe that the prose throw their arrows when poetry already met the board, I know, in all honesty is not how you will survive, I have no clues or secret solutions to put poetry back on the map, but let me try, give me a chance. We need to bridge the gap, we must operate on the route that excludes incredible unit option, the distance that we have a moment to bridge. So I ask once again humbly apologized for the “I” took too much space in this text that should penetrate, parody, prophesy, parry and prepare the way, like a chicken in the oven, and I would like to point out, in my defense that Marcel Proust said that when we read a writer is never the author we read, it’s his parents, it’s his friends, his senses in a remote now, his escape printed lust ( that last I came upon yourself), so why blame an “I ” who never show themselves, or as Descartes puts it: “To read all good books is like conversation with the most cultured people in times past was their author,” and I mean this in no way this is a cultivated text, no no, it is merely a defense to expose the voice that so often gets blamed for destroying the immanence of a text, this “I” that is said to set the text to be lacking in credibility, lack objectivity and give the text a sense of unity that feels bought. Contemporary poets can make poetry of it all, and maybe they are right, for what is the Israel – Palestine conflict other than poetry, repression in North Africa but prosaik, sexism other than polemics and Snowden but nonfiction fictionalized. We might not have been created by an omnipotent God, but we are made of this world and thus consists of all it contains. Mirrors, trees, torches, meat, coughing, hatred, biceps, triceps, clitoris, wrinkles, light. Word. In this way, we love the world (i.e., ourselves) in the same way as poetry, people and language—the new trinity—must be loved if we are to awaken, cracking and popping poetry code. For long time ago, decades ago, it was called language poetry, it is time that we delete “language” out of the equation to make the bridge between non-fiction and fiction sweet. Thus, it is Gertrude Stein’s eternal questions which accounts for the microscope: What is poetry and if you know what poetry is what is prose? Where do you start a poem? What’s before the first sentence? Some thoughts are more prominent than others. Some emotions do you value more than others. Some issues are perceived more important than others. Therefore, and for more than systematic, bureaucratic approach the question whether it really is so that the poetry is dead because of the categorizing from the literary journals is this movie book. Here we go. Follow it on the road! Literature is not just words. Literature is space, media, performance art. Literature is Shelly Jackson. Literature is architecture. Literature is your commitment all week long. Literature is just words. Literature, The Modern Museum of Art when it is closed. Literature is the Devil’s right hand. Literature is a red balloon on your birthday. Literature is geographically. Literature is the delayed return of love. Literature available. Literature never cry. Literature has no border policy. Literature is anything but words. Literature is snow. Literature never judge. Literature is mathematically incorrect. Literature is not a word. Books are all words in the world linked. Literature is equated with feminism. Literature cannot be bought. Spontaneous literature is incredibly provocative.
Who among us hasn’t wanted to kill the sweetest thing?
The romantic strain—the idea that individuals emanate unique works of art unconstrained by societal or intellectual strictures—is as potent as ever in contemporary thinking and teaching about writing. Nowhere is this more evident than in the relationship of literary fiction to genre fiction, a category that literary writers tend to deplore. Take a few sample […]
The Irish weather demands a black umbrella, but I prefer green over black. I see green in ways the morning light comes up over the green tree divide that separates the city from green-plastic- covered potato mounds. Being a crop inspector is serious business. There’s been a few cropped heads because men with hatchets remember […]
Aruni Kashyap is a writer, editor, and translator. He has published two works of fiction in English (The House of a Thousand Stories, Viking/ Penguin Random House, 2013 and His Father’s Disease, Westland, 2019), one work of fiction in his mother tongue, Assamese, (Noikhon Etia Duroit, Panchajanya Books, 2019) and he has edited an anthology […]