Wednesday, July 18, 2018

Rose Knapp, Americas’ Lotus Easters


L’Amour Fou for Daeæscmons Salut 
image by Daniel Y. Harris 




Americas’ Lotus Easters 


Dissociated Dome of the Rock

Seth sets Lokis’ form intoquicksand 
Renaissance melodies masquerade 

Glass pyramids tessellate modality 
Baroqueballroombackhallalleycats 

Silver bracelets hover distorted
On my slightly slit wrists Akiko 

Akhenaten Sakutarō Hagiwara
حج hajj sphinx riddles slip seep 

Gnawing their ways through 
Wastelands theoretical heretical 

Black bone marrow splits open
Clouds have known no Avila

Pietà Jihad domed apparitions 
Jinxed Judith Jupiters’ red moons

Blood Scatting jazz and power 
Pulsing from Mecca mechanically

I catch it in the deserted LA night
Streets gaze at the cube 

Hovering there as if it was a Borgia
I slit one ghostly ghazal 

In its' side admirecutstonemarble
Watch as pieces of Eden

Free fall flittering shards of Mani 


Voltaic Visions

Lightning lashes laconic 
Across LA sky lines [frag 
Ment]cius mists drift down
Sifting over clout cashflows
Running into Hollywood
Data rushing DTLA tar
Split sieves Sycophantic

Cores encapsulated 
By choruses of chaos
Sprawl surrounding
Glazed over teal 
Eyes peering over 
Verbatim Verses 
Peeling petrified 

Latin words out
Of silken air the
Silent stills whisper
Midway lais lapis ruby Isis glares
Catatonic Laüstic cat velaric clāvis
White slashes of piercing castrating noise
Prostrates its’ acrolect ascetic ink dashes in emblazoning altars


Ἡρόδοτος’ ἱστορία Gregorian Antipater patois basilectalization

Hexehedral of Our Lady
Of Angels Thien Hau 
Templeless Mazu sakuras 
Subtle Fragrant tapestries
Of decadent domine decay
Incense burns sentiente é nonsense 

Bisclavret Daeæscmons salut one
An other on In---Concrète 
Slabaths wordsseparating 
Hallowed spaces
Outside Taoist 
Catholic Uni(vision)
Studios temples 

I watch the endless
Blazing pile of books
Blacks and unborn 
(Lucky bastards
And a superstitious 
Black man preaching)
Bête noire noir Alpha 

Et tu wonder at times
Why noir means black
Nègre negative filmstrip 
Lit--//Nile Grime Crime 
Anagram\\Règne Rene

Changeling Dao De Jing Channeling

Pure ecstatic noise
Screeches nails on a Nazis’
Crosswalk straight central
Zeitgeist please don't press Pound 
On a chalk 0...0 outline Ouija
Touché 
Cafe ceremony 

Static bounds only 
Know pathetic Kantian
Reasons Pauline Words
Pulverize themselves into
Perversity for perpetuity 


Evaporates intolerable
Scats as only black
Things can appari
Tion iron lion Leon 
Nonsense nous non
Hope non change non


[Post] Commentary Waste Lands
[Cantos] Chanticleers Changelings

Lamplit night clearcuts tourists diptych past bright red-gold brushed kitsch Shanghai sillsjaded kimonos
Flutter on mannequins gawking in aviators shade 妖怪 spirits harmonized in calligraphicflute notes   
Purity splitting deranged dreamscapes 

Debased borderlines déflorer Decatur florescent
Decanters deconstructing flâneuses 


—Rose Knapp



Tuesday, July 17, 2018

Nathan Spoon & Tom C. Hunley, An Exhalation of Springheads


 Misinformed Genie 
(acrylic and paper on canvas; 8 x 10 inches) 
image by Nathan Spoon



An Exhalation of Springheads

The hungry sheep look up, and are not fed…
                                   ―John Milton

In the beginning, a single cell divides
itself, becoming two cells in symbiosis,
giving a third dimension to words spoken
(once written), like Cerberus with an extra

serpentine pair of eyes gazing into
ambient spaces, until it becomes clear
that three times two is six and two
more is a new plant leafing itself into
a row of jelly bean-colored houses,
along the water running through
Burano, Italy, I can’t get those

figureheads off my bed. Or off
the walls! My forehead has grown
embarrassingly smaller than yours,
whoever you may be. I designed a labyrinth
to thrive inside and I hid the prototype
underneath a stone near my outdoor plants –

also embarrassingly smaller than yours.
Now, from a bottom corner of the canvas,
nymphs are sprinkling leaves on my head
which is secretly hosting a hive of bees.
I’m making honey and a movie trailer.
The honey is sweet, and it sticks to bones.
If you like the trailer, I’ll make the movie,

which will make you love me doubly, love me
two times two divided by our unruly, wayward
children. Fractious, if passages can wind
into abysses blank as frozen zaffer,
as the trees give rise to a hive by leaning,
finally, into Hell. I like being wayward
and drifting drunkenly in a boat copied
and pasted onto the river Styx. This is what

happens after spending more than two hundred
billable hours kicking up extra dopamine with
other runners. Suddenly you are accidental besties
with people who were probably antelopes
in recent lifetimes! Tomorrow I’ll peel
away from work and visit Mansard.
The place is a marsh and isn’t a marsh
mostly as unassuming as Westhaven?
Let’s say I’m a map and you’re “You are here” and someone
else, we don’t know who, is lost and needs our help.

When the planet is sleeping inside
a gigantic piece of Silly Putty,
while Platonic wings emerge on randomized
whims projected from the insides of flowers,
there is something unsayable
(which isn’t being mentioned now) that flashes
from the depths of insentience. It’s beautiful!


―Nathan Spoon & Tom C. Hunley

Thursday, July 5, 2018

Nathan Spoon & Colin Winborn, Unaffected by Strong Force


Democracy of Flower
(acrylic and paper on wood; 11 x 14)
image by Nathan Spoon 



Unaffected by Strong Force


detail

i will accomplish nothing. will

  take in joyfully the glow of

    this maple in nov(a).ember while

      thinking about biscuits.

*

am i the failure i have always

  wanted to be. since nothing

    could be worstward.er let,s

      hope? snow is arriving soon.

*

On the page.
          Stars fell.
From the sky. In the night.
                                        Fell as snow.
A page is our heartbeat. A page is our breath.
                    Our blood.
Look now.
Unmeasure. Now this vale.

*

Under a blanket.
                                        Of snow.
          Of stars.
Carrots grow.
                    In earth. Through which.
Worms whistle.

In sightless unison.


retail

from vessel.   you sieve
                
               within             nothing kept from

tomorrow. doing         a domain

bounded through.  to

                         leptons anointing
                      
               a slave mission

fizzy filigree
         
            snatched quantity. of attic
                  
                   blocks

kleptomania up
                   
        braids your hair    still set

                in
               
                my hands

catacombs
        
        are pets

beloved

               ear canals

              call
         
         my vassal


derail

They are tiny. They are few. They are snowflakes.
Pack a horde together in time to blink
                    the world astray.

*

From a lost future: smoke.
Beneath a stone: a

*

Snake. I put the toe of my shoe

behind its head and, gathering it up

between my child’s forefinger

                                   and thumb,

carry it, like a golden rope, home.

Once over the fence and returned

                              to our back yard,

     I return it eagerly to the vatic

*

And grassy ground. Watch it crawl like

a shoestring of imagination. Put

                    the toe of my
                    shoe again behind
                    its head and reached
                    down into the darkness
                    of its impossible

swivel where it struck my

forefinger with its

babycopperhead fangs.

Here: spliced

                    lance-marks.


tail end

which is.

 limbo

                  sent

                        out

    lying. in

what state

           coppice and  
salty waves   -

        gate,

   way    propped

the snow

             this

   blue

horizoning

          no.

vember

     vestige

allows flesh

        a hostage

intuits   bardo           within

                                 limits
    stinting

at                 the

               meat stash      suffers

stares   down

      the alley/    way   inter

                                  ested

               all night

          a hinge    a pivot     i’ll

swing

          by that


―Nathan Spoon & Colin Winborn



Tuesday, July 3, 2018

Chris Nesti, Memcpy(buffer+nop, shell, strlen(shell))


Memcpy(buffer+nop, shell, strlen(shell)), image by Chris Nesti 




Memcpy(buffer+nop, shell, strlen(shell))


ƨɿɘbluoʜƨ ƨƚi blɘʜɘd I bnɒ ,bɘʞool I bɿɒwqU
ƚɿɒɘʜ ym bɘɔɿɘiq noiƚɒnɿɘƚƨnoɔ ʜƚiw bɒʜ ʜɔiʜW
bɘƚɒnimɿɘƚ yɘllɒv ɘʜƚ ɘɿɘʜw ƚnioq ƚɒʜƚ ƚA

Ƹ ,ƚooʇ ƨ’niɒƚnuom ɒ bɘʜɔɒɘɿ bɒʜ I ɿɘƚʇɒ ƚuᙠ
yɒw ɘuɿƚ ɘʜƚ bɘnobnɒdɒ bɒʜ I ʜɔiʜw nI
ƚnɘmom ɘʜƚ ƚɒ ɿɘdmulƨ ʇo I ƨɒw lluʇ oƧ

bɘɿɘƚnɘ I ɘɿɘʜƚ woʜ ƚɒɘqɘɿ llɘw ƚonnɒɔ I
ɘɿɘʜƚ wɒƨ I ƨǫniʜƚ ɿɘʜƚo ɘʜƚ ʇo I lliw ʞɒɘqƧ
bnuoʇ I ɘɿɘʜƚ ʜɔiʜw ,ƚɒɘɿƚ oƚ booǫ ɘʜƚ ʇo ƚuᙠ

ɘɿom ɘlƚƚil ƨi ʜƚɒɘb ,ƚi ƨi ɿɘƚƚid oƧ
ɿɒɘʇ ɘʜƚ ƨwɘnɘɿ ƚʜǫuoʜƚ yɿɘv ɘʜƚ ni ʜɔiʜW
nɿɘƚƨ bnɒ ,ʜǫuoɿ ,ɘǫɒvɒƨ ƚƨɘɿoʇ ƨiʜƚ ƨɒw ƚɒʜW

yɒƨ oƚ ƨi ƚi ǫniʜƚ ɒ bɿɒʜ woʜ !ɘm ʜA
ƚƨol nɘɘd bɒʜ yɒwʜƚɒq bɿɒwɿoʇƚʜǫiɒɿƚƨ ɘʜƚ ɿoᖷ
ʞɿɒb ƚƨɘɿoʇ ɒ niʜƚiw ʇlɘƨym bnuoʇ I

ɘʇil ɿuo ʇo yɘnɿuoႱ ɘʜƚ noqu YAWᗡIM
ɘniviᗡ ɘvoɘʜƚ ɘmiƚ ƚɒʜw ,ɘɿɘw miʜ ʜƚiw ƚɒʜT
ƨɿɒƚƨ ɘƨoʜƚ ʜƚiw ǫniƚnuom ƨɒw nuƨ ɘʜƚ qu bnA

ǫninɿom ɘʜƚ ʇo ǫninniǫɘd ɘʜƚ ƨɒw ɘmiƚ ɘʜT
bɘnɿuƚ bɒʜ nɿuƚɘɿ oƚ I ƨɘmiƚ ynɒm ƚɒʜT
yɒw ym ʜɔum oƨ ɘbɘqmi bib ɿɘʜƚɒɿ ,yɒИ

ɘɔɒʇ ym ɘɿoʇɘd moɿʇ ɘʜƨ bɘvom ɿɘvɘn bnA
ɿɘ’o bɘɿɘvoɔ ƨɒw niʞƨ bɘƚƚoqƨ ɒ ʜƚiw ʜɔiʜW
ylǫnibɘɘɔxɘ ƚʇiwƨ bnɒ ƚʜǫil ɿɘʜƚnɒq A

nɒǫɘd ƚnɘɔƨɒ ɘʜƚ ɘɿɘʜw ƚƨomlɒ !ol bnA
ɿɘwol ɘʜƚ ƨɒw ɿɘvɘ ƚooʇ mɿiʇ ɘʜƚ ƚɒʜƚ oƧ
ɘqolƨ ƚɿɘƨɘb ɘʜƚ no I bɘmuƨɘɿ yɒw ɘʜT

bɘƚƨɘɿ bɒʜ I ybod yɿɒɘw ym ɿɘƚʇA
ƚʇɘl noƨɿɘq ǫnivil ɒ ƚɘy ɿɘvɘn ʜɔiʜW
ƨƨɒq ɘʜƚ bloʜɘd-ɘɿ oƚ ʞɔɒd ʇlɘƨƚi nɿuT

bɿɒwno ǫniɘɘlʇ ƨɒw lliƚƨ ƚɒʜƚ ,luoƨ ym bib oƧ
ƨɘzɒǫ bnɒ ƨuoliɿɘq ɿɘƚɒw ɘʜƚ oƚ ƨnɿuT
ɘɿoʜƨ ɘʜƚ noqu ɒɘƨ ɘʜƚ moɿʇ bɘuƨƨi ʜƚɿoᖷ

ʜƚɒɘɿd luʇƨƨɘɿƚƨib ʜƚiw ,oʜw ,ɘʜ ƨɒ nɘvɘ bnA
ylƨuoɘƚiq oƨ bɘƨƨɒq bɒʜ I ʜɔiʜw ,ƚʜǫin ɘʜT
ƚuoʜǫuoɿʜƚ bɘɿubnɘ bɒʜ ɘʞɒl ƨ’ƚɿɒɘʜ ym ni ƚɒʜT

bɘƚɘiup ɘlƚƚil ɒ ɿɒɘʇ ɘʜƚ ƨɒw nɘʜT
bɒoɿ yɿɘvɘ yd ƚʜǫiɿ ƨɿɘʜƚo ʜƚɘbɒɘl ʜɔiʜW
ƨyɒɿ ƨ’ƚɘnɒlq ƚɒʜƚ ʜƚiw ybɒɘɿlɒ bɘƚƨɘV


—Chris Nesti

Friday, June 29, 2018

Nathan Spoon & Myla Thomas Fairchild, The Jubilation of Air


Drum Fire Harmony
(acrylic, paper and pencil on paper; 11 ¼ x 15) 
image by Nathan Spoon  



The Jubilation of Air


RELEASED clouds and tiny gaps
of old buildings of winter.
No sign of the sun?

I wish I could be
inside a raindrop
replenished with the storm

and lighthearted! Finally
reaching one another first
in free harmonious clumsiness, *glee*.

and explore the cracks as I would love to
by my dance with the rain. How
The earth is just a cold, wet wind enveloped

by grass blades and lonely, eager
seeds that somehow stare out
of the glass cage, and watch the earth 

waiting my arrival.
Thirsts slight, lipid pools. I the leaves
frolic, and I observe as with a subtle in a jittery run.

welcomes me new the join YES, creating life
by small touch. be as I land
my quenched home.


―Nathan Spoon & Myla Thomas Fairchild

Thursday, June 21, 2018

Clayton Eshleman, Orphic Ontologies II, excerpt from Pollen Aria

Orphic Ontologies II
excerpt from Pollen Aria


The essence of human power:
access to the cosmos from the heavens down to
earth & into the Cro-Magnon underworld

Charles Olson on Wallace Stevens. to Creeley, May 5, 1952: “For the lie in Stevens, however much the pleasure in the play of words, is his language, that, it is without rhythm because it is without passion which is person (not personae, that further divide against mass).”

To Creeley, May 6, 1952: “We both had a sudden excitement, just now talking, when it turns out (it was that fucking Stevens who had provoked it by some line about poetry to undo dirt) O that dirty Crispin of his—dirtier than Prufrock): those who keep themselves away from life (again protecting a—the—pudenda) that Con said
                                             I don’t feel any dirt
                                                                                    And Christ I loved her, for, there ain’t none, and those who have it, who have this thing of original sin hung around their cocks like a  dead albatross, are of another tribe, a tribe of sin not at all of the  tribe of men
                                                                                                         And it struck us both just then what what makes communication with you so open is, that you have none of this shit in you: you are free of that.”

In the beginning was drawing, line on stone or bone,
consciousness united with its own perceptions: womb of the creative!
A totally metaphoric world, no difference between subject & object.
Dream holes: anywhere but nowhere in particular.

James Hillman: “The most distressing images in dreams and fantasies, those we shy from for their disgusting distortion and perversion, are precisely the ones that break the allegorical frame of what we think we know about this person or that, this trait of ourselves or that. The ‘worst’ images are thus the best, for these are the ones that restore a figure to its pristine power as a numinous person at work in the soul.”

Think of this page as a phare on night’s alabaster dives & cornucopian emptiness, cross-wired to the ochre of farraginous dreams.

One’s place is an expanding lesion in ancestral fog. Ultimately I am, sitting here, a ghost figure crouched before a cave wall 20,000 years ago.

Pregnant abyss of the enigma of male birthing. Non-existent gestation—egg fertile only with the 
maggot of self.

Is our war on animals a planetary cannibalization brought about by self eating self to reach non-existence in a masque performed by hydrogen mountains & sulfur assassins?

The salmagundi of “now” & “forever” is the crucible that contains the frailty of eternity.

James Hillman: “Images are the compelling source of morality and religion as well as the conscientiousness of art.”  Show this to Gary Snyder [See the Winter 1996 Paris Review Snyder Interview].

The writhing of precision as it meets time.

Perception is the handmaiden of imagination.

Cornucopia of the sunshine forest with its anteater molecules,
a Reich bion lurking in each word
whose apogee is cratered with emptied hives.

Sun as a circumference concentrate.

It is not enough to represent, to re-
present, the present as leftovers.
Warmed up past is forever at our heels.

The analphabetic, orthochromatic, anti-nature of the mind when freed of cauliflower containment.

Alive to the dead end in every observational move.

At the corner of Bukowski & Ashbery a groin helmeted with bridal choirs.

Fingering the pluck of plumeless existence ripe with skinned heads.

A Mayan anaconda coils below Arcadia’s latent still.

A stratigraphic sequence reveals its ember-work, its furnace forum always underway. It rests in a floral nest, a leaden, still hissing egg.

James Hillman: “We have to tie terrorism to its roots in our religious consciousness. A terrorist is the product of our education that says that fantasy is not real, that says aesthetics is just for artists, that says soul is only for priests, imagination is trivial or dangerous and for crazies, and that reality, what we must adapt to, is the external world and that world is dead. A terrorist is a result of this whole long process of wiping out the psyche.”

The greatest insult is to be pressed to
the backside of a word, whose lobes are in contact with
what the word is said to signify—a folly,
worse the gull that engenders self-hate
(is it any wonder, then,
that people back their cradles up to their coffins
to dump in life unlived?)

To revivify my mummy, not my mommy,
but my puppet, my eidolon where Crane is
a mass of strings in cross-pull to themselves.
Cross-pull or crucifixion strut,
nail-holed Hart as the mage of my abyss,
as old as Dionysus but not as old as Lascaux…

Being alone is real. The I spoken here is not Clayton
but Being reflected by Clayton’s non-existence-to-be.

The ego which absorbs all like a sponge & then is dissolved in the Void of the Abyss.

“It is when we have made this leap or jump across the Abyss—and only then—that we
know that we are not… At that moment we realize that we are void, that void is
subjectivity, and that subjectivity is us—not us as individual selves but us as all sentient
beings, not as any sort of sentient being but as sentient being as such. That is the negative
way… that is why we must know that we are not in order that we may understand in what
manner we can be.” (Wei Wu commenting on Han Shan’s words).

Poussin’s satyr-scape is no more.
The anointing of the dead Adonis. No more.
Pan’s shadow as leafy quilts. Psychic clouds boiling westward. No more.
Blind Orion searching for the risen sun. No more.




—Clayton Eshleman


Tuesday, June 19, 2018

Nathan Spoon's Exploding and Whirling: A Review of The Complete Poetry of Aimé Césaire, Translated by A. James Arnold and Clayton Eshleman


Translated by A. James Arnold and Clayton Eshleman
Series: Wesleyan Poetry Series, Hardcover: 994 pages
Publisher: Wesleyan; Bilingual French-English ed. edition (September 5, 2017)
ISBN-10: 081957483X



Exploding and Whirling: The Complete Poetry of Aimé Césaire, Translated by A. James Arnold and Clayton Eshleman, Reviewed by Nathan Spoon


*

The poetic journey of Aimé Césaire, a Black Francophone, begins in 1939 with the appearance of Notebook of a Return to the Native Land, a long poem demonstrating the extent to which he has already internalized the poetic energies of predecessors as eminent as Rimbaud, and then continues until the 1994 publication of the twenty-two poems that comprise Like a Misunderstanding of Salvation…, his last book. Between these two works, is the oeuvre of a remarkable surrealist poet and founder (along with Léopold Senghor) of Négritude, a literary movement that united Black writers anywhere in the world based on their shared African ancestry.

*

With Notebook Césaire strikes forcefully, in a poem, made up of one-hundred and nine sections, that at first offers protracted descriptions, laying bare the collective hardships of life in colonized Antilles,

   At the end of the small hours burgeoning with frail coves the hungry Antilles, the Antilles pitted with smallpox, the Antilles dynamited by alcohol, stranded in the mud of this bay, in the dust of this town sinisterly stranded.

This is a reader’s introduction to a sweeping, spiraling voice very different from the sweeping, spiraling voice American readers of poetry know:

I celebrate myself,
And what I assume you shall assume,
For every atom belonging to me as good belongs to you.

As the translators of this volume note, the narrator of Notebook is not introduced until the twenty-fifth stanza. This gives a firm sense of what becomes more pronounced as Césaire moves along through his years and decades. The concern for others expressed in his poems, especially for other Black people, and the intense descriptions of the world beyond the individual self, are prominent to the degree that the self is best understood in relation to others and the otherness of society and world. If Whitman can afford to be cosmic, as he is in the opening lines to “Song of Myself”, Césaire, by contrast, cannot.

*

This leads into what is most unique about Césaire. For all his incendiary experimentation, subversiveness and even blasphemy, he is constantly pressing the vision of the eminent end of colonialism. Here is another contrast: in relation to his predecessors, which also include Baudelaire, Lautréamont, Mallarmé, and Péguy, Césaire can be blasphemous, but not entirely blasphemous. While Rimbaud says of Hell, “I swallowed a monstrous dose of poison,” “How nicely I burn” and “The air of Hell will tolerate no hymns,” Césaire describes a living hell, with hope for a better future threaded though it:

I say hurray! The old negritude progressively cadavers itself
the horizon breaks, recoils and expands
and through the shredding of clouds the flashing of a sign
the slave ship cracks from one end to the other… Its bell convulses and resounds… The ghastly tapeworm of its cargo gnaws the fetid guts of the strange suckling of the sea!

Solar Throat Slashed & Other Poems of Note

Despite Césaire’s differing circumstances and concerns, his seminal collection is, as the translators of this volume present it, Solar Throat Slashed (touched on in my note at the end of this post). It is a collection of seventy-two short poems (no poem runs beyond two pages, and many take up less than half a page) that offers a far more comprehensive line than the line of Notebook of a Return to the Native Land. To provide a sense of range, here are excerpts from several poems, along with a description of the gist of each.

Some poems are elliptical like “Intercessor”

O torn sun
blind peacock magical and cool
with arched test tube hands
futile eclipse of space

and some are simple like “The Wheel” (appearing immediately after “Intercessor”):

The wheel is man’s most beautiful and sole discovery
there is the sun that turns
there is the earth that turns
there is your face turning on the axle of your neck when you weep…

Some are joyous like “Samba”

All that from a cove combined to form your breasts all the hibiscus bells all the pearl oysters all the jumbled tracks that form a mangrove all the sun that is stored in sierra lizards all the iodine needed to make a marine day all the mother-of-pearl needed to delineate the sound of a submarine conch
If you wanted them to
the drifting tetraodons would move hand in hand

Some are whimsical like “Solid”

holy shit they have secured the universe and everything weighs―every-thing―the plumb line of gravity having been installed at the facile bottom of solidity―the uranium deposit the garden statutes the perverse loves the street that merely pretends to be the fluid stream don’t mention it whose pace more sluggish than my feet there is nothing up to and inclu-ding the sun that has not stopped its clouds forever fixed.

Some poems, as already mentioned, are blasphemous, while others are more devoutly religious. Some are by this point in Césaire’s writing expected, and some are entirely unexpected. Still, the poems are shot through with the poet’s central concerns, but these poems carry that concern into a larger arena, as does the poem “Torture” (and, although it is tempting to quote this brief poem entirely, here is the second half):

All those who know how to show on imperial purple great blots of dark sperm accompanied by a diagram of their fall
all those whose fingers are an unprecedented sumptuousness of butterflies curved according to the earth’s axis
O all those whose gaze is a carousel of birds born of a superhuman balance of sponges and of fragments from a galaxy extinguished beneath a small railway station’s heel

*

Going into and then on from Solar Throat Slashed, and through the rest of the poet’s oeuvre, a reader discovers expansions and contractions of vision, as well as a general movement into and then away from spiritual potencies, allowing the poet to address political concerns, before again embracing the spiritual. Through it all Césaire remains intensely imaginative, proving himself master of a poetic voice that is, as Jean-Paul Sartre describes it, “beautiful like nascent oxygen.” With The Complete Poetry of Aimé Césaire, A. James Arnold and Clayton Eshleman have produced a seminal achievement in the translation history of Aimé Césaire unlikely to ever be surpassed.    


Endnotes

Leaves of Grass, 150th Anniversary Edition, Edited and with a New Afterward by David S. Reynolds, Oxford University Press, 2005

A Season in Hell & the Drunken Boat, Arthur Rimbaud, Translated by Louise Varèse, Preface by Patti Smith, New Directions, 2011

Poetry Editor’s Blog, March 2018