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Showing posts with label <b>Wystan Curnow</b>. <a href="https://writing.upenn.edu/epc/mirrors/ronsilliman.blogspot.com/">Show all posts</a>
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<div class='status-msg-hidden'>Showing posts with label <b>Wystan Curnow</b>. <a href="https://writing.upenn.edu/epc/mirrors/ronsilliman.blogspot.com/">Show all posts</a></div>
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<h2 class='date-header'><span>Thursday, February 16, 2006</span></h2>

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<span style="color: black;"><img height="378" id="_x0000_i1025" src="https://writing.upenn.edu/epc/mirrors/ronsilliman.blogspot.com/images/lh5.googleusercontent.com/proxy/UsYS6VMrUGslpVLUMemXe6guVIH7HaIQ8qVXUABo3MeU5vJI4gc8H5QpxhOKk0WnVcY3gSdqfR6PR7NCg7lW7UPaUimsPpNemdFpX0w%3Ds0-d" width="250"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: &quot;arial&quot;; font-size: 10.0pt;">My favorite poet named <a href="http://jackbooks.com/Wystan/Wystan.htm"><span style="color: black;">Wystan</span></a> has a new book out. Actually, my favorite poet named <a href="http://www.vuw.ac.nz/modernletters/bnzp/2004/curnow-note.htm"><span style="color: black;">Wystan</span></a>, <a href="http://jacketmagazine.com/29/curnow3.html"><span style="color: black;">Wystan Curnow</span></a>, known also as <a href="http://www.library.auckland.ac.nz/subjects/nzp/nzlit2/curnoww.htm"><span style="color: black;">editor</span></a> &amp; <a href="http://www.apexart.org/conference/Curnow.htm"><span style="color: black;">critic</span></a>, known inevitably further as the son of <a href="http://www.bookcouncil.org.nz/writers/curnowa.html"><span style="color: black;">Allen Curnow</span></a>, the late great late-modernist poet of New Zealand. But Wystan always has been a fine poet all on his own, at least so long as I&#8217;ve known him (and those years have begun piling up). <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 12.0pt;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: &quot;arial&quot;; font-size: 10.0pt;">It&#8217;s a simple enough book in a short run, just 500 copies, not very much for somebody whose writing is known &amp; appreciated on three continents. And just 46 pages, although it feels like more because each page consists of a sheet of paper folded over, a so-called French fold &#8211; at first I thought the pages were still uncut until I realized there was nothing printed on the interiors. The poems inside are quite different from one another, albeit all in a post-New American aesthetic mode that may remind some new readers of William Carlos Williams, Jimmy Schuyler or Michael Palmer, an intriguing trio I never would have thought to triangulate I had not read <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">these </i>poems. Indeed, different poems are printed in type sizes as small as eight points &amp; as large as ten. Functionally, the book is a series, as virtually every poem addresses (or contains) the problem of color &amp; many the subject of painting:<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: &quot;verdana&quot;; font-size: 10.0pt;">(<br /> <br />
Blue nude<br />
<br />
I saw you<br />
<br />
reclining<br />
<br />
alone<br />
<br />
)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: &quot;arial&quot;; font-size: 10.0pt;">At one level, that seems like   slight pun on the old Rodgers &amp; Hart song, but in the context of this book, it invariably calls up Picasso (just as those brackets invoke Brancusi) &amp; the song itself, which has been recorded by everyone from Sinatra to Bob Dylan, likewise invokes one side of modernism, a concept one is never very far from here. The key to the book, in fact, is two color reproductions of Piet Mondrian&#8217;s <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Composition</i> (1920), one on page four facing the first text, the other on page 30 facing the last. The painting is in Mondrian&#8217;s geometrical style of the period, and is a piece that Mondrian never sold, but kept on display in his own studio at 26 Rue du Départ in Paris, his base of operations from 1914 through 1936. During this period Mondrian continually repainted the studio itself so that it was, all on its own, &#8220;a Mondrian.&#8221; Unfortunately, the only photographer who ever documented the apartment was a local Parisian named Delbo, who took some black &amp; white photographs in 1926.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">  </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: &quot;verdana&quot;; font-size: 10.0pt;">Obviously the colours are crucial to an appreciation of the impact the studio made on its visitors. Could they be deduced by matching the grey tones of the painting in Delbo&#8217;s photographs of the studio&#8217;s interior? There were six different tones of grey in the painting: red, yellow, blue and two shades of gray and black.<br />
<br />
What seemed straight forward in theory proved much more difficult in practice, however. In the first place it turned out that the grey tones in his photographs differed from those [Frans] Postma [who took on the job of restoring Mondrian&#8217;s studio] found in the black and white photographs he himself took of the painting. Was the difference in the painting or the film? Apparently, Delbo had used a film stock that was less sensitive to yellow than to blue and that had long ago been taken off the market. And then the grey tones in Delbo&#8217;s photographs were determined in part by the light conditions in the studio. Until variations attributable to those variations were eliminated they greys could not be successfully matched. The colours of the painting and of the oil paints Mondrian used had to be submitted to spectrographic analysis, computer models made of the lighting conditions, before a plausible replication of the studio&#8217;s appearance could be reproduced.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: &quot;arial&quot;; font-size: 10.0pt;">The color in the two photographs of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Composition, </i>the first as it would look using Delbo&#8217;s unsensitized film &amp; reconstructing hues from that, the second &#8220;as it would have looked if the grey values had been rendered regularly in the film used by Delbo&#8221; are almost entirely different.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">  </span>Reds are grays and grays become reds. Or yellow. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="color: black; font-family: &quot;arial&quot;; font-size: 10.0pt;">Modern Colours </span></i><span style="color: black; font-family: &quot;arial&quot;; font-size: 10.0pt;">is divided into two parts, of which the piece containing the section above, comes in the earlier part of the first. Not, however, the opening, nor positioned so as to be the book &#8220;about&#8221; Postma&#8217;s problem. The second part, starting on page 31, after the second of the two reproductions, is &#8220;Mondrian&#8217;s Restaurant,&#8221; written in three parts:<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-left: .5in;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: &quot;verdana&quot;; font-size: 10.0pt;">I.<br />
<br />
Chairs, yellow and blue. Who <br />
is &#8216;himself&#8217;? What <i><span style="font-family: &quot;verdana&quot;;">is</span></i> abnormal? <br />
The outer side we understand <br />
first. The orange is no good <br />
before it is ripe, nor beef before <br />
it is ready. What&#8217;s the link<br />
&#8216;&#8217;tween pig and tong&#8217;? White-<br />
decked tables&#8212;carafes&#8212;blue <br />
siphons&#8212;people under the <br />
terrace awning and indoors. Pang. <br />
A young woman with a pointed <br />
hat. &#8216;Une orange.&#8217; When are <br />
we ripe &#8216;n&#8217; ready? &#8216;Un café <br />
vieux marc.&#8217; A glass wall <br />
open: the little restaurant itself <br />
open to the sun. A glass of <br />
wine knocked over. Spillage. <br />
Abnormal only &#8216;here&#8217;. Orange <br />
outside and orange inside. <br />
Beef is beef and orange is <br />
orange. This workman <br />
does not allow himself luxury. <br />
Liqueur neutralises wine. <br />
The whole framed by evergreens <br />
in boxes also green. My blue <br />
siphon. Who experiences <br />
everything and remains unchanged?<br />
The crowd decides. The orange <br />
from outside is other than <br />
the orange from inside. <br />
A gourmet is a gourmet even <br />
in the church of Montrouge. <br />
The young woman with a hat <br />
puts water in her wine. Inside <br />
and outside: the owners and <br />
the people asking for an eight-hour <br />
day or night (says my <i><span style="font-family: &quot;verdana&quot;;">L&#8217;Intran</span></i>). <br />
In winter the restaurant changes <br />
again. Of course the taller <br />
person sees more. &#8216;Un petit <br />
suise&#8217;. Yet a businessman is <br />
often a man of very little <br />
business and an artist is <br />
often very little an artist. <br />
This man does not put water <br />
in his wine, and takes no liqueur. <br />
Icy fingers down the line. <br />
Workman and intellectual.<br />
<br />
The lace curtain in front <br />
of the glass wall pretties up <br />
what&#8217;s outside: TNAR&#8212;UATS&#8212;ER, <br />
gigantic letters on three <br />
large glass panels <br />
above the white. Breakage. <br />
A car on the left, a peram-<br />
bulator to the right. Just as <br />
white inside and out. <br />
A man is sometimes a <br />
woman and a woman some-<br />
times no woman. Pang. <br />
The pharmacy still has char-<br />
bon naphtolé granulé<br />
and vin de Pepsine Byla. <br />
It may be jelly. A family. <br />
The words tell their meaning <br />
On the outside: RESTAURANT. <br />
Both reach their destination. <br />
&#8216;Voilà, Monsieur.&#8217; &#8216;Un boeuf gros set.&#8217;<br />
Everything has a remedy <br />
and each remedy its disease. <br />
&#8216;Sunday best.&#8217; The ornament <br />
on the white below has no <br />
special meaning. The ever-<br />
greens in boxes: neither <br />
to the left nor to the right <br />
on Palm Sunday. Orange <br />
on the white plate on the <br />
white napkin. &#8216;Une pomme <br />
dessert.&#8217; The coarse and the fine. <br />
Buttermilk helps one&#8217;s stomach. <br />
I think of &#8216;Sunday&#8217; in the <br />
provinces. It is what it is <br />
from both inside and out. Straight <br />
up. Purity through one <br />
colour and purity through <br />
fullness of colours. Spill-<br />
age. Both are necessary.<br />
Where there is nothing, even <br />
the King has no rights: <br />
there is no buttermilk in Paris. <br />
A Parisienne. &#8216;Une pomme purée.&#8217;<br />
The green shrubs are not <br />
palms. Purity by reflection <br />
and purity by absorption. Can <br />
they take each other&#8217;s place? <br />
Supplanting. &#8216;Une banane.&#8217;<br />
A beggar. Today sprigs of <br />
boxwood (buis) serve as palms. <br />
<br />
<br />
II. <br />
<br />
Who absorbs <i><span style="font-family: &quot;verdana&quot;;">purely</span></i> <br />
and reflects <i><span style="font-family: &quot;verdana&quot;;">purely</span></i>? <br />
Each costs money, <br />
each has value. <br />
<br />
The flower seller <br />
doesn&#8217;t water her wine <br />
but her flowers in the sun. <br />
&#8216;Une chopine de rouge.&#8217;<br />
<br />
He is dans la purée. <br />
The buis is blessed <br />
by the Church. The orange <br />
a feast in the sun. <br />
<br />
&#8216;Elle n&#8217;est pas trés<br />
bonne,&#8217; the apple is <br />
of little value, yet it <br />
costs money. Her <br />
<br />
flowers come from<br />
outside Paris and so <br />
does she. &#8216;Une religieuse.&#8217;<br />
&#8216;Un mendiant.&#8217; The shrubs, <br />
<br />
to what do they owe<br />
their blessing? Yet some-<br />
times one fears pure <br />
colour. &#8216;Deux cafés, <i><span style="font-family: &quot;verdana&quot;;">deux</span></i>!&#8217;<br />
<br />
So does the little woman<br />
with the coeurs à la crème.<br />
&#8216;Quatre sous de pain.&#8217;<br />
Better to eat a &#8216;mendiant&#8217;<br />
<br />
than to be one. Re-re-re-re&#8212;t-toe-oeh!<br />
White envelope on white<br />
napkin. I see pink<br />
paper again. She has<br />
<br />
lunch and does business<br />
with the restaurant. Worse<br />
bread, higher priced, <i><span style="font-family: &quot;verdana&quot;;">after</span></i><br />
the war. Union Centrale&#8212;<br />
<br />
an archway&#8212;des Grandes<br />
Marques. There is the<br />
blessing (heartfelt) of the<br />
green of the shrubs.<br />
10 cts. <i><span style="font-family: &quot;verdana&quot;;">Horoscope</span></i> . . .<br />
<br />
a legacy, yet the horoscope<br />
is for a woman, not for me.<br />
A coeur à la crème: a heart<br />
of buttermilk in milk.<br />
<br />
Behind the evergreens<br />
on the footpath, people<br />
to the right and people<br />
to the left. A great factory<br />
<br />
gate across the way is<br />
closed on Sunday.<br />
These chairs, these tables,<br />
these dishes, these people<br />
<br />
&#8212;who blesses them? A deaf <br />
mute through the green shrub. <br />
An automobile. White <br />
in white and yet not the same. <br />
<br />
Most to the night. On <br />
Sunday who is &#8216;open&#8217;? <br />
Three men with palms. <br />
Pink paper: <i><span style="font-family: &quot;verdana&quot;;">Horoscope</span></i>. <br />
<br />
A Sunday hat blows off.<br />
Buttermilk in Paris! <br />
&#8216;Voici, monsieur&#8217;<br />
&#8216;Merci, mademoiselle.&#8217; <br />
<br />
A woman trolley <br />
conductor. The flower <br />
seller also has palms. <br />
<br />
Re-re-re-re-h-h<br />
&#8212;<i><span style="font-family: &quot;verdana&quot;;">Montrouge</span></i>&#8212;St. August-<br />
in in red on yellow. <br />
I feel the wind along <br />
<br />
the glass screen (slip<br />
stream) behind me. We <br />
find the same everywhere <br />
in different form. On <br />
<br />
the right the Metro and<br />
also the Barrière. The <br />
green shrubs leave <br />
an opening. Lace curtains. <br />
<br />
A widow, a child, a<br />
decorated soldier<br />
all with palms. The deaf<br />
mute hears no noise<br />
<br />
from outside. The sun is<br />
shining and the wind is<br />
cold. Streamers colours feel-<br />
ings. Many coeurs à la crème<br />
<br />
take the place of liqueurs<br />
and medicines. The<br />
Barrière leads out and the<br />
Metro leads in.<br />
<br />
Two soldiers. How did the<br />
soldiers earn their palms?<br />
Does he hear from within?<br />
The good and the bad together.<br />
<br />
The liqueurs and the<br />
medicines in turn<br />
replace many &#8216;hearts.&#8217;<br />
Left are the church of<br />
<br />
Montrouge and the city.<br />
Everything has its &#8216;sphere.&#8217;<br />
A poet without a palm.<br />
&#8216;Du pain, s&#8217;il vous plaît.&#8217;<br />
<br />
&#8216;Je vous donne mon coeur&#8217;&#8212;she<br />
has many of them<br />
la bonne femme. For a long<br />
time Montrouge was beyond<br />
<br />
the Barrière. Restaurant <br />
things and men. Two <br />
ladies with palms and parasols. <br />
&#8216;Merci madame.&#8217; The sun<br />
<br />
is shining on the flower <br />
carts, on the oranges, <br />
on the avenue. &#8216;Ma fille!&#8217;<br />
Bing-bang&#8212;bing <br />
bang&#8212;Montrouge <br />
church is still where it was.<br />
<br />
<br />
III.<br />
<br />
One thing at the expense <br />
of another. People like <br />
to protect themselves. <br />
Everyone talks.<br />
<br />
A poster across the way: <br />
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Fabrique de sommiers. <br />
</b>At one time she had just one <br />
heart. Black silhouettes behind<br />
<br />
the green shrubs from <br />
outside, is that why they <br />
speak? The factory is necessary <br />
like the restaurant. The couple<br />
<br />
over there are sharing one <br />
coeur à la crème. The sun <br />
shines equally on the dark <br />
figures of people&#8212;darker<br />
<br />
on Sunday than on other <br />
days&#8212;and on white tables<br />
&#8212;whiter on Sunday than <br />
on other days. Flower<br />
<br />
barrows by the footpath. <br />
The dove of the Ark carried <br />
such a green branch. The <br />
deaf-mute sees well enough.<br />
<br />
Behind me through the glass <br />
a bit of the fortifications<br />
&#8212;posters to the fore. The petit <br />
trottin has two coeurs<br />
<br />
à la crème. On working days <br />
it is different at this hour. <br />
All the same. Barrows with <br />
apples. &#8216;Merci madame.&#8217;<br />
<br />
&#8216;L&#8217;addition, s&#8217;il vous plaît.&#8217; <br />
Does he see more? Behind <br />
the fortifications apaches <br />
asleep on the grass. The <br />
foreigner over there is eating<br />
<br />
his coeur à la crème all <br />
alone. An hour later, again <br />
different. Barrows with oranges. <br />
Montrouge&#8212;Gare de l&#8217;est<br />
<br />
&#8212;Gare de l&#8217;est&#8212;Montrouge <br />
in red on yellow. Rhoe-aeh-hae!<br />
One is not yet out of the city. <br />
A soldier. No people: chairs,<br />
<br />
tables, carafes, siphons <br />
are again &#8216;themselves.&#8217; <br />
Barrows everywhere. Coming <br />
and going. This automobile<br />
<br />
he does not see. Apache, city, <br />
police: each exists through <br />
the others. He has a coeur <br />
à la crème? Who is &#8216;himself&#8217;?<br />
<br />
&#8216;Caisse.&#8217; Ebb and flow. <br />
&#8216;Qu&#8217;est-ce que vous prenez, <br />
madame?&#8217; The avenue runs <br />
on beyond the Barrière. A coeur <br />
à la crème is not only soft but<br />
<br />
also white. Pang. The &#8216;caisse&#8217; is <br />
still operating&#8212;thanks to money. <br />
Both the trams alike but their content <br />
is different. The fille de sale<br />
<br />
is not deaf-mute. At night, <br />
not individuals. &#8216;Vous <br />
avez terminez, monsieur?&#8217;<br />
A glass of wine is knocked over.<br />
<br />
Breakage. Heads and hats <br />
above evergreens. Taller ones. <br />
Outside, a child is spelling: <br />
A-lec-san-dre. The orange<br />
<br />
was deaf-mute. Beef.<br />
Only the crowd is moving <br />
but the avenue is alive. <br />
Chairs, yellow and blue. Who<br />
<br />
experiences everything and <br />
stays unchanged? Evergreens <br />
about as tall as the normal man. <br />
From this inside I see <i><span style="font-family: &quot;verdana&quot;;">erdnaxela</span></i><br />
<br />
on the flap of the terrace <br />
awning against the light. <br />
Which &#8216;speaks&#8217; most? A freight <br />
train is running on the tram<br />
<br />
tracks: with produce. White<br />
-decked tables&#8212;the carafes&#8212;blue <br />
siphons&#8212;people, under the terrace <br />
awning and indoors. In winter<br />
<br />
the restaurant changes <br />
again. What is normal? But <br />
is not Hebrew. My boeuf <br />
bourguignon was also deaf-mute.<br />
<br />
Without provisions, no city, no <br />
restaurant. The glass wall <br />
open: the little restaurant opens <br />
itself to the sun. The lace curtain<br />
<br />
in front of the glass wall, scribblings <br />
over: TNAR&#8212;UATS&#8212;ER, <br />
gigantic letters on the three <br />
glass panels above the white. <br />
&#8216;Un bifteck aux pommes.&#8217; &#8216;Alexandre&#8217;<br />
<br />
reversed. Yet it too &#8216;spoke.&#8217; <br />
Everything is linked. The whole <br />
bordered by evergreens in boxes <br />
that also are green. Outside.<br />
<br />
Words tell their meaning on<br />
the outside: RESTAURANT.<br />
Who is normal? The word is <br />
changed but some of the letters<br />
<br />
have not. But differently. Yet<br />
this hard-to-find link &#8216;&#8217;tween<br />
pig and tong&#8217; in orange. Inside<br />
and outside: the owners and<br />
<br />
the people asking for an <br />
eight-hour day or night (says <br />
<i><span style="font-family: &quot;verdana&quot;;">L&#8217;Intran</span></i> in my hands). Ornament <br />
on the white has special meaning.<br />
<br />
It must be jelly. The French <br />
are not tall: in England the hedge <br />
would have to be taller. Who <br />
is the same from the inside<br />
<br />
and from above? The orange <br />
was orange and the beef was brown. <br />
&#8216;Un café vieux marc&#8217;. Worker <br />
and intellectual. It is<br />
<br />
what it is, both from inside <br />
and out. That soldier over there <br />
comes above it, so does that <br />
lady and so does that priest.<br />
<br />
From the inside. The green. <br />
And yet each letter stays <br />
itself: inside meaning streaming. <br />
I would not have liked<br />
<br />
either the other way around.<br />
This workman does not indulge:<br />
liqueur changes wine. A family.<br />
&#8216;Une pomme puree.&#8217; A little man<br />
<br />
with a stiff leg is near me.<br />
Yet the outward remains the inward&#8212;<br />
the outward is made up of<br />
the inward and the inward<br />
<br />
of the outward. &#8216;Une blanquette <br />
de veau!&#8217; The young woman puts <br />
water, the young man puts water <br />
in his wine, yet takes no liqueur.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 12.0pt;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: &quot;arial&quot;; font-size: 10.0pt;">The book is dedicated to Jackson Mac Low and one almost has to think of Jackson&#8217;s own <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Light Poems </i>as a precedent for this obsession with color as an organizing principle for a suite of poems. But more than anything, this poem for me carries the feel of Jimmy Schuyler, with his sense of detail &amp; penchant for description as sufficient to carry the work. That seems clear enough with the first section, with its long stanzas &amp; soft enjambments. But it&#8217;s true also &#8211; maybe even more so &#8211; with the last two as well. Other pieces in the book, however, use completely different strategies &amp; yet still arrive very close to this same place, as with this gorgeous untitled poem:<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 12.0pt; margin-left: 0.5in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: &quot;verdana&quot;; font-size: 10.0pt;">Reds lamp tresses<br />
<br />
<br />
gyratory pianistic updrafts<br />
<br />
<br />
of reading matters and socialite getups<br />
<br />
<br />
by Arp&#8217;s four cousins&#8217; famous<br />
<br />
<br />
forte celibacy and so forth<br />
<br />
<br />
from a long line of vanishing points<br />
<br />
<br />
bundling off big settees<br />
<br />
<br />
well into the wee small hours<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 12.0pt;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: &quot;arial&quot;; font-size: 10.0pt;">This poem is every bit as painterly as &#8220;Mondrian&#8217;s Restaurant,&#8221; but on completely different terms, treating sound here as tho it were a palette of hues. Read aloud, the lines are marvelously physical on the lips &amp; in the mouth, which I found surprising given just how few hard sounds are being employed &amp; almost never clustered together to call attention to themselves.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 12.0pt;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: &quot;arial&quot;; font-size: 10.0pt;">If <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Modern Colours </i>feels at moments a little too constrained &#8211; all of the artists &amp; writers mentioned here have long since been canonized&#185; &#8211; it&#8217;s also almost a text of how every element of a book can contribute to its overall effect. The execution is brilliant, including not just Curnow the writer, but <a href="http://www.brodieinc.com/iamsam/altgroup.html"><span style="color: black;">Toby Curnow</span></a>, Wystan&#8217;s son, who designed it. It&#8217;s one  of those projects that forces you (if you are me, at any rate) to acknowledge that your own strengths as a poet lie elsewhere. I&#8217;ll never ever have a book so completely realized. So I simply stand in awe. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div align="right" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 12.0pt; text-align: right;">
<spanstyle color:black=""><img border="0" height="288" id="_x0000_i1026" src="https://writing.upenn.edu/epc/mirrors/ronsilliman.blogspot.com/images/lh6.googleusercontent.com/proxy/HYzSHo0P6Z-f8BhQK3lepTzErfOIZlhvEPV7TUyBUT0IQlZfcCp8GxVMgycFXfIsv5o-smwTO0mDLMtJgd93JHDmjLhxuKLx36GEE4gaQGcVU6onzZH8C4zcBQceVr2LJ3PjgbLuiLG2bng%3Ds0-d" width="380"><br /> </spanstyle></div>
<span style="color: black; font-family: &quot;arial&quot;; font-size: 8.0pt;">Mondrian&#8217;s studio<br />
as reconstructed by Frans Postma<o:p></o:p></span>

<br />
<div align="right" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: right;">
<br /></div>
<div align="right" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: right;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 12.0pt;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: &quot;arial&quot;; font-size: 8.0pt;">&#185; Roman Jacobson knocks on Klebnikov&#8217;s <i>(sic)</i> door, Krychenykh drops by, Max Ernst has (or perhaps is) a dream, there&#8217;s a portrait of Picabia, Lissitzky&#8217;s room is deconstructed, we see Modigliani&#8217;s "mob," etc.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<h2 class='title'>Ketjak</h2>
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<a href="http://www.ucpress.edu/books/pages/10742.php">I: The Age of Huts<br /><br /></a>             <a href="http://www.ucpress.edu/books/pages/10742.php"><img src="https://writing.upenn.edu/epc/mirrors/ronsilliman.blogspot.com/images/lh6.googleusercontent.com/proxy/u_VsYLU9NS_tJXOrl6A4RM1Dne7QkuSslpBc0StgKSXXoIDStYoXqSwDo2tuxST00QD3ynVJH4yjAhcEzTWyM0F_RriCRx9yZdyygceY2wm-%3Ds0-d" /></a><br /><br /><br />II: Tjanting<br /><br /><a href="https://www.saltpublishing.com/products/tjanting-9781876857196"><img src="https://writing.upenn.edu/epc/mirrors/ronsilliman.blogspot.com/images/lh4.googleusercontent.com/proxy/efy1lIcVIKeKSdy_WUDIxV8WLN0OJmA3f7enQ2XDwxwt7Bh5ssfQQAkW_o4oG6FqrB1RGf7CX-Rw-VQ4u36RIuwSsCMxWjjHFDP4c7CbW2d_%3Ds0-d" /></a><br /><br /><br /><a href="http://www.uapress.ua.edu/product/Alphabet,1897.aspx">III: The Alphabet<br /><br /></a><a href="http://www.uapress.ua.edu/product/Alphabet,1897.aspx"><img id="ctl00_MainContent_ProductInfo1_ctl00_PrimaryImage_PrimaryImage" onclick="javascript:window.open(&#39;http://www.uapress.ua.edu//images/temp/212-1897-Product_LargeToMediumImage.jpeg&#39;, 1, &#39;resizable=1, width=500, height=700&#39;)" src="https://writing.upenn.edu/epc/mirrors/ronsilliman.blogspot.com/images/lh3.googleusercontent.com/proxy/OnaMjXm2h6XxneM04RgHx1Bkf2Wi9UE3a8c3o0NDvW5wXo7BK3MaM5VP9YfbEIpHYxAstTorwhNW4lhhkNuua5bDX7Ogr2UgZ1NMDDjeh-0bNnuo-WH-9pGHIR6lv-4-_UDHVNe36xB6%3Ds0-d" style="border: 1px solid Gray;" /></a><br /><div><br /></div><div>IV. from Universe</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>
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<span style="font-weight: bold;">MEMOIRS &amp; COLLABORATIONS</span><br /><a href="https://www.amazon.com/Leningrad-American-Writers-Soviet-Union/dp/1562790056">Leningrad</a><br /><a href="http://www.thegrandpiano.org/">The Grand Piano</a><br /><a href="https://www.saltpublishing.com/products/under-albany-9781844710515">Under Albany</a><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">CRITICISM</span><br /><a href="http://www.spdbooks.org/Producte/0937804207/the-new-sentence.aspx">The New Sentence</a><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">ANTHOLOGY</span><br /><a href="https://secure.touchnet.com/C22921_ustores/web/classic/product_detail.jsp?PRODUCTID=327&SINGLESTORE=true">In The American Tree</a><br /><br /><br /><br />
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<br /><img alt="" src="file%3A///Users/Lynn/Desktop/silliman2a.jpg" / /><img alt="" src="file%3A///Users/Lynn/Library/Caches/TemporaryItems/moz-screenshot.png" / /><span style="color: #990000; font-weight: bold;">RON SILLIMAN</span> has written and edited 40 books, and had his poetry and criticism translated into 16 languages. Silliman was a 2012 Kelly Writers House Fellow, the 2010 recipient of the Levinson Prize from the Poetry Foundation, a 2003 Literary Fellow of the National Endowment for the Arts, a 2002 Fellow of the Pennsylvania Arts Council, and a 1998 Pew Fellow in the Arts. Silliman has a plaque in the walk dedicated to poetry in his home town of Berkeley and a sculpture in the Transit Center of Bury, Lancaster, a part of the Irwell Sculpture Trail. He lives in Chester County, Pennsylvania and teaches at the University of Pennsylvania.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />(c) 2002-2019 by Ron Silliman.
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