Sonia Sanchez (b. 1934) is a prolific African American author of twelve poetry books and lots of other stuff. Associated with the Black Arts Movement. I read a short meditation on life and love because I feel like that today: Personal Letter No. 3 nothing will keep us young you know not young men or …
Paul Celan (1920-1970) is of course the best German poet who has ever lived. I don’t read the canonical ‘Todesfuge’ here, you can find excellent
Today I felt something again.
It has been a while.
I felt something while listening to music:
Elation, Otherworldliness. Fate.
Nizar Wikipedia). I read a simple love poem, translated by B. Frangieh And C. Brown, that sounds unmistakenly Arabic: In the summer In the summer I stretch out on the shore And think of you Had I told the sea What I felt for you, It would have left its shores, Its shells, Its fish, And …
to the light.
there is no landscape but
a row of black I totem poles
absolution dogs us in complex fugues
played on a mole’s sleeping belly
mad frogs wearing unreliable diapers
augur a couple more dimensions
in which we thrive like ferns in giant forests
(we eat the lumens)
and keep patenting that impossible is nothing
From Liverpool poet Brian
I walk rather straight to the subway station an old hooker says fuck fuck fuck let’s go fuck it is the umpteenth century there are those days that I just want to lie in the grass there are those that I want to answer my call unambiguous days, blushing in abundant sunlight days I talk …
Today I read ‘Underground Blues’:
My candle burns at both ends;
It will not last the night;
But ah, my foes, and oh, my friends—
It gives a lovely light.
Chilean poet Nicanor
* kitschy, mawkish, gooey, schmaltzy, bathetic, hokey.
Without further ado, let’s assume the AI has all information available and imagine a debate with the world’s foremost human intellectual. The AI will have a flawless argument that takes into account all the information in a superhuman fashion a human intellectual can never attain.
Its rational reasoning is far superior. Recall the
The wind is mathematics,
and your tear ducts
me insisting we continue,
the curvature of your smile
the rock you sat down on,
the ocean that sighed in your stead
the proof that life is a theorem,
which can never be proven to be one
Death is the end, yet not the purpose of life, Aristotle said.
But when you die it has to be done right the first time.
The way you die will say a lot about your life.
But doing something right implies purpose.
What did Aristotle say about this?
Amy Clampitt (1920-1994) from Iowa wrote most of her poetry when she was over sixty. I found a poem entitled ‘fog’ that I like because of its precise description: Fog A vagueness comes over everything, as though proving color and contour alike dispensable: the lighthouse extinct, the islands’ spruce-tips drunk up like milk in the …