This was, to put it simply, a moving-on poem. A poem reckoning with the stubbornness of severed infatuation. I wrote the poem during the pandemic about a long-distance pandemic romance, which felt always encased in the surreal, even in its most real and unflinching moments. I found myself relying on the miracle of collapsed distance that dreaming often affords us in grief—suddenly, I could be, indeed, across the country in a Mustang with a man who days earlier had a change of heart. The poem's drafting also taught me that sometimes we need to put the poem away and just communicate—directly, with heart.
Peter LaBerge on "USA Today Says the Pacific Coast Highway Is Falling Into the Ocean" |
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"Why (Most) Critics Hated The Waste Land"
Christopher Morley wrote in the New York Evening Post of January 9, 1923, "Eliot is a mighty clever chap, and The Waste Land is unquestionably a highly sophisticated and cathartic bolus of cynical humor. But it has almost crazed some of the more advanced critics, who try with lamentable gravity to find Deep Meanings in some high-spirited spoofing."
via LITHUB |
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What Sparks Poetry:
Jennifer Kronovet on Celia Dropkin's "A Fear Growing in My Heart"
"Brazenness, surprise at my own flagrant flowering, disgust and enthrallment with my physical transformations, and a bloody lust: all of these things that Dropkin experienced, I have been able to experience on her terms, through them. Would I have known how to without her words? Would I have known how to come through the other side dripping with lyric instead of wrecked by frameless feeling?" |
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