The ground still squirming. The ground still not fixed as I thought it would be in an adult world.
This is what I will do today; I will try to find a way, a path, an opening … into the work of Jack Spicer. It seems like the most important assignment, I’m not yet sure why, but it might have to do with thoughts like these:
Spicer accepted that the poet’s job is to write not what he thinks he wants to write but what the poem insists that he write, which might turn out to be precisely what the poet didn’t want to write. It was a process that required “trying to distinguish between you and the poem.” His faithfulness to this notion led him to include the lines that other poets leave out, the stammers and interruptions, the irretrievable false starts (“I dreamed last night— / This is false in any poem”), the embarrassing cackles and groans from the sidelines. The odd effect of this was to make his work seem more and more like a form of realism, a voyage among real mental events. This was not to be confused with automatic writing.
This is where I will start:
- My Vocabulary Did This to Me: The Collected Poetry of Jack Spicer
- The House That Jack Built: The Collected Lectures
Why I also chose to present Richard Long on this page? Well, I suppose its just another result of total unpredictable and incomprehensible randomness …