Givens of a walk round: five goslings and two geese
beneath architecture. A sapling spines out of rainwater
with a marsh bird in its beak. Beyond, commissary
concrete and the police band's buzz, enthusing
flyaway. We are mortal and these thoughts
propagate what they propitiate. Specialness,
springtime: we accept terrain. Rain dusts
newsprint to assign our skins, adopt our homes.
But Mrs. Ramsay said it would be fine tomorrow.
Is our tomorrow hers? Her nearly audible click?
What is to be done in the face of our mild occupation?
Paddling between their parents, the newly fleeced
are burred with dim yellow optimism. What's given
seems some water and the bell these buildings peal.
This is gonna be a loooooong post. What follows is a freely edited transcription of my notes from the Zukofsky/100 conference at Columbia t...
Midway through my life's journey comes a long moment of reflection and redefinition regarding poetics (this comes in place of the conver...
Thursday, September 29, 2011 Berlin. Fog of sleep deprivation coloring an otherwise perfect blue autumn day a sort of miasmic yellow i...
Elif Batuman has amplified her criticism of the discipline of creative writing (which I've written about before ) in a review-essay tha...
My title is taken from the comments stream of an article recently published by The Chronicle of Higher Education , David Alpaugh's "...
Trained it down to DePaul's Loop campus this morning to take part in a panel, "Why Writers Should Blog," alongside Tony Trigil...
Will be blogging more or less permanently now at http://www.joshua-corey.com/blog/ . Or follow me on Twitter: @joshcorey
In one week Lake Forest will hold its commencement and I'll take off my professor's hat for the summer. A few weeks later, in June, ...
Farewell, Barbara Guest .
That's one of my own lines. From an untitled (they're all untitled) severance song: After form fails a furling, reports dying away,...