A reading and book party
at the Bowery Poetry Club (308 Bowery, north of Houston)
Saturday March 8th at 1:00 PM
Anselm Berrigan, Charles Bernstein, Jackson Mac Low, Sasha Steensen, Leslie Scalapino, Mei-mei Berssenbrugge, Pierre Joris, Kristin Prevallet
Editors: Rick London and Leslie Scalapino. 160 pages. $16.00
O Books. ISBN # 1-882022-48-3. $16.00. 160 pages
Available from Small Press Distribution: 1341 Seventh St., Berkeley CA 94710.
And: O Books, 5729 Clover Drive, Oakland CA 94618.
enough, which the editors began to assemble following 9/11 at the start of the U.S. war on Afghanistan, is a collection of poets whose writings are interactive with the current time, writing as its matter and syntax not separate from oppressive conditions and war. In enough, U.S. poets, British, Palestinian, Iraqi, Israeli, speak back and forth to each other only in the medium of their art. The editorial basis of enough is that these poets’ art is not separate from their being in the world — and that: Seeing what’s happening is a form of change.
“We are alone. We are alone to the point of drunkenness with our own aloneness,/with the occasional rainbow visiting...The prisoner said to the interrogator. ‘My heart is full/of that which is of no concern to you. My heart is full of the aroma of sage./My heart is innocent, radiant brimming...in the remains of dawn I walk outside of my own being...” Mahmoud Darwish.
“This moment,/this second/cuts in be-/tween in two...” Pierre Joris. “THE CUPS WE DRINK FROM ARE THE SKULLS OF ARABS/AND THIS SILK IS THE SKIN OF BABIES...THE SOULS HAVE NO VALUE THEY ARE FOX FURS/THAT WE DRAPE OVER WELL-FED ARMS AND SHOULDERS...” Michael McClure.
“Are you glutted yet, no there are other countries to vomit bombs out on, the sec of defence that is the every moment of cruelty, has a gleeful face, carnage who knows the new wind, there isn’t enough oil so...” Alice Notley. “Where, that which is interior side half rind, throughout, or half of a rind that’s no retina out ahead floating in it night meets black night is disintegrate cut savagely by them, not ignored—it’s reversed there and to, disintegrates—but suddenly she gets it that she doesn’t have to fight that which disintegrates it, her, lye, that one can just be near it, all the time beside it go on and on, without...” Leslie Scalapino.
“A corpse the size of my body, turning into coal. Protecting the head between the shoulders. An impacted tooth. A wide forehead, and long fingers. A silver ring I inherited from my father, and the residue of burns suspended between my jaws. Waw turning over a dying ember, ta with a gouge in its belly and nun that has became a hearth for ashes [watan: homeland]...” Nasri Hajjaj. “you mean guerrilla loose/weave in another language...” Heather Fuller. “It is perhaps lucky that the spoken word remains wild inside us, rushing and vanishing out of our bodies. Speech is not thought...is a form of breath” Fanny HowePosted by Brian Stefans at March 01, 2003 05:46 PM