Poem of the Month

abandoned only because academic usage had made it lifeless.

abandoned realism but used it for the painting of feeling

abandoned. In this way the material object was made more abstract

like a tennis ball over the net between the two parties

 

above the clouds.

 

absolute necessity to the composition, or should they be replaced

absolute shadow-side to the picture, never a piece of unrelieved

 

abstract by the concrete and spoil the concrete by the abstract.

abstract form, we shall produce works which are mere decoration,

abstract, but is applied as an element of some other object, and

abstract, the non-material. Consciously or unconsciously they are

abstract, their mutual relations, either individually or as parts

abstraction.

 

abuse him as charlatan or madman. So in his lifetime stood

 

academism. Even music has a grammar, which, although modified

 

according to the relation to other forms of the form which causes

 

accuracy of form to the inner need, the material of which his art

accurately speaks, such a mixture produces what is called

 

an artistic expansion of space. The combination of both

 

achieved simultaneously by several forms of art, each art

achieves greater prominence.

 

active element gradually disappears. But this active element is

active force, for they stand the, one in motionless discord, the

active warmth of yellow or the active coolness of blue

 

admirably expressed it. But in everything he did he showed the

admixture of black, for black quenches the glow, or at least

 

advances, what is today a phrase of inner harmony becomes

 

affections dark as Erebus: Let no such man be trusted. Mark the

 

after a new sense of form approached the same problem. Cezanne

 

Again, let us take the case of the definitely religious picture.

against black with clear strength.

 

Light yellow against white is

against materialism,

against the demand that everything should be

aggressive character.

all intent dies the moment the atmosphere alters which nourished

all these open great vistas of artistic possibility.

All these works have the solemn and regular architecture of a

“symbolist” school

almost a household word. the name of the movement is

the alone of the language, of sound and beat stands alone, without

alone.

 

And at times when the human soul is gaining greater strength, art

and blue, colours in themselves of no physical relationship, but

and blue. Harmony today rests chiefly on the principle of

and complementary one to the other. Conversely, at those times

and contradiction, we can draw the easy conclusion that for a

And conversely, self-sacrifice, mutual help, lofty thoughts,

and devote ourselves purely to combination of pure colour and

and disposes, as he wills, these three elements. IT IS CLEAR,

and drawings by Kandinsky.

and emerge as the ballet.

and especially between music and painting. Goethe said that

and fear, etc.–are too material and naive for the abstract ideas

and fears. When one stage has been accomplished, and many evil

and finally impotent, so the spirit perishes if untended. And for

and finally, since a book of such drawings by a child of twelve

and grandiloquent language. Partly for this reason, partly from

and grief. These artists have filled their pictures with a bitter

and have different spiritual values.

 

and yellow is as close as between black and blue, for blue can be

 

angles and abruptness. In the second case motion and dance are

angles. So his aim is smaller and more limited than Kandinsky’s

 

another uses its methods, so that the methods may afterwards be

 

answer, there is always a possibility that the same “something”

 

antithesis–an ex-and concentric movement. If two circles are

 

anxiety to state his case, to court criticism, the author has

 

Any attempt to free painting from this material limitation

any clearness and moderation. Some people will say that any such

any human being. Sensitives cannot, for example, remain in a room

Any preponderance in green of yellow or blue introduces a

anything “as it really is” and without fantastic imagination.

 

Apollinaire, “Les Peintres Cubistes.” Collection Les Arts. Paris,

 

appeal of an upright triangle is more steadfast and quiet than

appeal of the nothingness that is before birth, of the world in

appeal to men grows weaker and more distant. In music a light

appeal, and the inclination of the colour to yellow or to blue,

appeal, but assuming either a more material or more non-material

appeal, or must remain a purely non-material symbol.

 

applause. It is very important for the artist to gauge his

 

application of every method, but that that power must be

applied to the borrower’s art from the beginning, and suitably.

 

appreciated by people today; but a modern work of art which is

 

approach the problem of the spirit by way of the INNER knowledge.

approaching the spectator, the cold ones retreating from him.

 

are sympathetic to him, and expresses himself through them. So

are the sad, middle tones of a cello. A cold, light red contains

are there, certainly, but they get no further than the nerves,

are therefore four shades of appeal–warm and light or warm and

are tragic or passionate poems. He also sacrifices conventional

are unmusical–either wholly, by nature, or partly, for lack of

are used as symbols, almost as though they were mere

arise a crowd of gifted and skilful painters, so easy does the

 

art (this is the element of pure artistry, which is constant in

art an abstraction of thought and arrive finally at purely

art held general sway over the “Naturalist.” The Primitive

art is a false analogy, and that for a trained man or woman to

art is an ever-advancing expression of the eternal and objective

art is necessarily nobler than the “naturalist.” I am making no

art that is still-born. It is impossible for us to live and feel,

art. But here I use the term in the narrower sense to mean

art. Picasso’s admirers hail him, just as this Introduction hails

art. Talk of the coming “style” becomes more frequent daily. But

art. Until such time, it is the duty of those to whom his work

artist is a man who can draw and paint everything,” said Tolstoi.

artist up to a certain definite point. This point has been fixed

artist, as a creator, has something in him which calls for

artist, as child of his age, is impelled to express the spirit of

artist, but also of those who eat this poisoned food. The artist

artist.

artistic composition. [Footnote: By “Komposition” Kandinsky here

artistic end.

artistic form he presents what is impure, draws the weaker

artistic form. This I call an “Impression.”

artistic means that may be employed. Similar possibilities are

artistic means. His material machinery (gloomy mountains,

artistic power is called “art for art’s sake.”

artistic than his intentions and refuse to aim at photography

artists of the soul, says: “There is nothing on earth so curious

arts approached each other more nearly than they do today, in

arts which are outwardly different, hidden forces equally

 

aspect of the spiritual life. For instance, there is never an

association the effects of colour upon other senses than that of

association theory falls to the ground. So one is bound to admit

association with material aims. The artist has to consider not

association, is perhaps open to question. The soul being one with

association. Generally speaking, colour is a power which directly

association. Kandinsky refers to attempts to paint in colour-

 

at any rate the case at present. But besides this answer to the

at first, a matter of feeling. Any theoretical scheme will be

At such a time art ministers to lower needs, and is used for

At the apex of the top segment stands often one man, and only

At this point the individuality of the artist comes to the front

 

atmosphere which does not disturb him because he accepts it as

atmosphere, a similarity of ideals, at first closely pursued but

attempt is this book of Kandinsky’s.

 

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I will wait because I have found how to wait.

I have found that waiting is. As the wind swings

open the wooden door, as it gently closes,

square roots of measured weather.

 

-Nina Alvarez

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It is the heart. The heart cannot stay,
Marked with the storm of the titled page
With all the appropriate shadows

Long in the cranium, sung and webbed
And finally useless, like a wine bottle,
cut-glass breasts, Occam’s Razor in a kettle on the stove

And Jesus Christ Relleno
Bound at the wrist, face frank, black eye,
Easter, Eastern states, an ostentation.

what is the heart, if it is not these things?
As strange as a starfish in the bathtub.
The truth is this: we say these arteries
And sinews are something. They simply aren’t.

Hung to the post, ill-grown, ill-gotten,
A stone, a sort of Pentecost of weeds

Organic strange growth called Ephesia
Euphoria, dipped from the hand, two
chocolate wedges, a woman, a world
pius in its call-to-arms, sweet liberty

avant et dernier, in medias res, in the flesh

Insatiable black furnace, the gorgon head
fetid, anaerobic, Pleiades, and germane Germans-
the bout of sadness, the last arch before the road

wanders to gravel, glows slowly up the mountain
all the while, we wonder, touched vaguely
by something seen before the shrill steel Adam

Called America, called I-am-not-what-I-believe-but-make

Think of that bowled upside down horizon
Tilted city in the terrible nameless raison d’etre
Of push, punch, missile, top top top.
The abstraction, units of production, das kaptial

Higher than killer bees and college dropouts
Or the beach waves in Singapore, dead
Wood, bodies whose narrowed eyes

No longer blink away the sun, or salt
What are these hands that type, this tongue that wags
Found in my own poesies, my troubled longing
For fame, sense, sensibility, wonder, warm rooms

The rope, the knife, the pill, the essential.
No one knows what is really going on here.
We have small orders, functions, and then resistance.

This is all. The best are full of passionate insensitivity
The worst sell their compassionate
lies: the woman’s thighs, the endless sun,

the pulse, the glitch, the aspirin, the Adonis who
lays down hope: Sex is our savior, and the only thing
that binds us, still, to life, to each other. The heart is the

absentee father of sex, the heart phones it in.
But, before you can forget it existed, the heart
Requires itself, proves itself, usually through a

Sort of negative logic, an impenetrable moan.

 

-Nina Alvarez

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A tall girl should stand up straight

A guy who likes you should call.

A pretty girl should smile.

An almost pretty girl should smile more.

A girl who wants to be noticed should wear makeup, not glasses.

A girl with hair as blonde as yours should wear eyeliner.

A person with cool skin tones should wear warm colors.

A friend who invites you to stay with them should be nice to you.

On a sunny day, you should go outside.

You should feel bad about not being in the life of your friend’s son, like you said you would.

You should hate them for what they did.

You should feel bad about how he said, that most recent guy, that he was no longer attracted to you.

You shouldn’t test people. You shouldn’t push people. You should hide the severity of your thoughts.

You should starve before eating other people’s food.

You should have done more with your graduate degree.

You should have savings, by age 33, instead of $25,000 in debt.

You should have been a better planner.

You should have been a better investor.

You should have been a better friend and not been so difficult.

You should have figured out how to save the world and done it by now.

You should have figured out how to make a lot of money without working for someone else.

You should have joined a company and just stopped thinking.

You should have done a PhD and taught.

You should have had a novel finished by now.

You should have had more boyfriends. You are cute enough. What is wrong with you?

You should have spent less time thinking about yourself. Your self.

You should have found a way to work it out with your sister.

You should have not told that last guy when you were hurt or upset.

You should have learned to just enjoy sex for its own sake by now.

You should have waited until it was obvious the sex would be meaningful.

You should be married with babies by now.

You should have given more to the people you met. You know, just accepted them more.

You should have more fun, be more light-hearted.

You should have enough energy and be mentally healthy enough to get out there and really live.

You should have written more at the writing residency. You shouldn’t have tried to find romance while you were there. You should have been okay going to bed alone.

You should have found a way to tell off those people you’ve lived with who have been so bossy and controlling, instead of being steamrolled.

You should have never had to live with other people. You should have figured out how to make a lot of money and live alone by now.

You shouldn’t judge fat people.

You should never become fat.

You should be more like Matthew Dickman, his book of poems in in the Harvard bookstore. And he went to VSC.

You should be more like Christina Olson. She has her shit together. And a book of poems.

You should be more like Rachel Ephraim. She is getting married, and writes good fiction, and lives in Brooklyn.

You should be more like any woman who can actually keep a man.

You should be more like Tom Hanks. In fact, you should be Tom Hanks.

You should have written better poems.

You should have published a book by now.

You should have figured out how to inspire Nick Witkowski.

You should have made huge strides in becoming famous and simultaneously changing the world by now.

You should have memorized more poetry.

You should have had sex with less people.

You should have had sex with more people.

You should have never moved home with your parents for three years. That was bad.

You should have known who he was and what he would do to you from the first time you talked. And you did, which means you should have been stronger and just walked away.

You should be writing every morning and making lots of money every afternoon and having fun every evening.

You should have all the resources, food, and money you want.

You should have throngs of people listening to you.

You should have real power and influence in this world.

You should have been funnier, cooler, more interesting when the funny, cool, interesting people were around.

You should be calmer, more zen, have better self-esteem. After all the work you’ve done on yourself.

You should have the means to do whatever you want, including help others.

You shouldn’t need help from anyone.

You should be happier.

You should be prettier.

You should be smarter.

You should be clearer about purpose, about who you are.

You should be more who you are.

You should be who they want you to be, then you’d be less lonely.

You should listen to …

-Nina Alvarez

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I

Living is no laughing matter:
you must live with great seriousness
like a squirrel, for example–
I mean without looking for something beyond and above living,
I mean living must be your whole occupation.
Living is no laughing matter:
you must take it seriously,
so much so and to such a degree
that, for example, your hands tied behind your back,
your back to the wall,
or else in a laboratory
in your white coat and safety glasses,
you can die for people–
even for people whose faces you’ve never seen,
even though you know living
is the most real, the most beautiful thing.
I mean, you must take living so seriously
that even at seventy, for example, you’ll plant olive trees–
and not for your children, either,
but because although you fear death you don’t believe it,
because living, I mean, weighs heavier.
II

Let’s say we’re seriously ill, need surgery–
which is to say we might not get up
from the white table.
Even though it’s impossible not to feel sad
about going a little too soon,
we’ll still laugh at the jokes being told,
we’ll look out the window to see if it’s raining,
or still wait anxiously
for the latest newscast. . .
Let’s say we’re at the front–
for something worth fighting for, say.
There, in the first offensive, on that very day,
we might fall on our face, dead.
We’ll know this with a curious anger,
but we’ll still worry ourselves to death
about the outcome of the war, which could last years.
Let’s say we’re in prison
and close to fifty,
and we have eighteen more years, say,
before the iron doors will open.
We’ll still live with the outside,
with its people and animals, struggle and wind–
I mean with the outside beyond the walls.
I mean, however and wherever we are,
we must live as if we will never die.
III

This earth will grow cold,
a star among stars
and one of the smallest,
a gilded mote on blue velvet–
I mean this, our great earth.
This earth will grow cold one day,
not like a block of ice
or a dead cloud even
but like an empty walnut it will roll along
in pitch-black space . . .
You must grieve for this right now
–you have to feel this sorrow now–
for the world must be loved this much
if you’re going to say “I lived”. . .
-Nazim Hikmet, translated by Mutlu Konuk and Randy Blasing

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There was a time I could have wanted it

Wanted what I thought it was

Wanted what I was with it

Wanted it because

 

There was a time I could have sunk in it

Sunk in it as a single does

Sunk in it, saying that

What it was, it was

 

There was a time I could have drowned in it

Drowned in it and facial fuzz

I could have, would have drowned in it

Just because, because

 

There was a time for fricatives

I felt them standing on my tongue

Felt for fun and felt for food

And what I sensed, I sung.

 

There will come again some sibilance

Come again that shirring sigh

He will hold me shoulder width

I will hold him shoulder high

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