August 07, 2006
A Rose is a Rose is a Room is a Rose
I was working (read: snooping through the internet) and came across this old essay by Joshua Clover on the origins of L=A=N=G=U=A=G=E poetry, "The Rose of the Name," in the premiere issue of Fence--
It is a smart essay, and appealing; it reminds me that I wish sometimes that I was a language poet, as they seem to have slightly better parties with stiffer drinks and more talk of God. That's a joke. Mostly. I admire the philosophies and styles of Language poetry, the brassy humor and the willingness to be apropos of nothing. But the trick is that, at the end of the day, so few of the poems truly move me. So few seem to take what, to me, is the greater risk of personal (rather than merely cerebral) investment. As a poet and a reader, I'm always on the lookout for a good human moment, a moment of resonance and even comfort; I'm selfish that way. Anyone else have this problem? Maybe I am just not looking hard enough, in the right directions.
[8/9/2006 - Draft of poem that was posted here removed to maintain publication eligibility.]