], chosen by Marjorie Welish Rocks on a Platter, IV [excerpt] from Rocks on a Platter (Wesleyan University Press, 2004). That her part of the room had no windows and that the corridors offered no views out onto the world hardly made an impression. Ann Vickery - I Don't Think This is a World for Women, Mei-mei Berssenbrugge - Shelley in the Navy-Colored Chair, Brenda Hillman - from “Intimacy of tone…”, Marjorie Welish - Rocks on a Platter, IV [excerpt], Bill Berkson - On the Way to Dumbarton Oaks, Kate Greenstreet - a selection of quoted passages, Norma Cole - An Emphasis Falls on Reality, sent by Ann Vickery I Don't Think This is a World for Women from Beinecke Library [MS 271, Box 15]. And she confronted it in her penultimate book of poems, MINIATURES, published in 2002. Grave of Light: New and Selected Poems, 1970–2005 (Wesleyan Poetry Series), My Vocabulary Did This to Me: The Collected Poetry of Jack Spicer (Wesleyan Poetry Series), I Must Be Living Twice: New and Selected Poems. That meeting led to what became an ongoing correspondence mostly via email (many letters back and forth between November 18, 2003 and December 20, 2004), an occasional letter or postcard in the US mail. At the “Audacious Imagination” tribute to her life and work held at UC Berkeley in 2003, Barbara announced that she was “now writing surrealist poems,” adding “Though I came to surrealism late, it’s better late than never.” She then proceeded to give a reading of one of her greatest last poems, “Nostalgia of the Infinite” (a reference to De Chirico’s painting of the same title). I asked if I could have a copy because I was about to teach a course on new poetry by women, and she handed me the print-out, with a few markings. We all have read these poems and we know that after . Brown rain with pebbles catching its breath. Falling down by the wall in the wind. There was a stoic grace to her posture; the demeanor of someone who had learned to protect something important---defensive rapture, maybe. naming the throne “flotsam of appearances”, ALLOWING TIME. At the festschrift I met her daughter, Hadley, and H.D. Wise lettuces exaggerate their claim near the window of the Hotel Comfort. Once I sublet an apartment overlooking Union Square. THERE CAME A CLOUD IT SETTLED ON YOUR SHOULDER. Driving horses around the Etruscan rim. Among them, a gray coat she had bought in Paris; she said it was "good." in flat country the caravan at ewe season, near the threshold where they milk have bitten the nut- like substance, IV bauble of sound mahogany the king, traveling the length overhead a climate of twang the rushed snow, unstoppable space in the bold different in the next imagined movement the breach, is inimitable a phrase others believe there is no escape. sound of the last few words–; they will be abolished and this new movement embracing an echo, only discovered here the poem sustains marginality–, the timing of this substitution one ideafor another Countdown!knuckle on the hand illustrates itselftames–, a blissful discontinuity orders this estrangement of each, available word and the disinclination to advance (at that point in time) or desiretohurry toward an abrupt ending–, rushing or spectacular jumps over the hurdles–, as in conversation or do not hurry the poem, an advanced punctuation bursting from vases, into an arena of sound the aroma continues as a cloud of invisibility shelters. I found myself snared by these sites and smells. I chose a piece of Barbara's writing from the early-nineties. they have that melancholy that only perfect feeling has, they are not whistling in the dark like so many poems are now (and so many paintings), they exist purely for the sake of their experience and then they are one’s own experiences…, We have escaped from that pale refrigerator you wrote about, Here amid the wild woodbine landscapes wearing a paper hat, the idols in those frozen tubs secluded by buttresses when the Church of Our Lady cried Enough, Yet the funicular was tied by a rope, It could only cry looking down that midnight hill. The last flowers I had from my California garden I left with Barbara. The continent repeated its little whistle and spun around. But she did. No great stories to tell, just a few hours that seemed to pass like a few minutes, talking about poetry. In talking with her too, the sudden whimsy that in no way diminished her passionate commitment to poetry and art. and herself. Surrealism had become once more a shadow. She will not add to it. Wrist watches surround themselves with danger. Barbara, on the other hand, felt disconsolate. There she encountered James Schuyler, Frank O'Hara, John Ashbery and Kenneth Koch, who, with Guest, would emerge as the New York School poets. (Seeking Air, 119. Or so they say in Barcelona when air is dry. There was a problem loading your book clubs. There will be other acres. Our expectations of ennoblement by the poem had been disappointed by the lack-lustre condition of the poem.". Her late works move into more and more surrealism until she read almost like a language poet. Sadness and felicity you’re coming back ghosts in your striped Greek dress. I can’t tell which one. I knew Barbara Guest only a little—I met her in 1996 when I interviewed her at the little house where she lived in Berkeley. Top subscription boxes – right to your door, © 1996-2020, Amazon.com, Inc. or its affiliates. It was a happy time. Barrels. . You’re tossing your head as you go out the door. I didn’t want anything that brought congestion….

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