Wednesday, January 03, 2007

ever since i read rimbaud i've been in love with prose poetry. and i've been trying to write it ever since. think it would be easy, but no. in fact, prose poetry, a bastard hybrid if there ever was one [and one of the reasons i'm so attracted to the form] is difficult as hell. well, why wouldn't it be.

and but still, there are many damn good poets writing prose poetry. obvious, yes. but i guess i'm airing out a frustration. whenever i sit down and try to write unlineated texts i want to tear up the paper on which it is written. can't do that no more, since i write mostly with the computer. and it would be dumb as hell to try to crumple up my laptop. and expensive to boot.

so i keep trying. but ain't that the way of the writer, keep on going, and don't stop till you get to the end. and the results of our works? who the fuck knows. immortality? not for me. poetry, in all its manifold expressions, is both the way and the threshold.

poetry is not a vocation, or even an avocation, but a way to live in my life. a part of life. one of many parts of my life, but a vital one nonetheless.

when it comes to writing prose texts i must take a deep breath and say, i can't go on. ah fuck it. i'll go on.


At 11:12 AM, Anonymous Anonymous said...

Hi, Richard ... and apologies to everyone else ...

You sent me an email this morning. My email program ate it. I can't reply! Can you resend it, please? Thanks.

Dylan Harris


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