Absence, displacement, manipulating the make up of a sentence, swapping parts of speech, word jumps. These are some of the events evident in these sentences, which can be seen or read as poetry of falsehood. Here the syntax and tone of words have lost their age old structure. The classical structure, ordinary combinations and customary images are jettisoned. Society makes standards and is, therefore, after the stamp of approval. It looks for introduction and recognition.
Society evaluates, media, newspapers, magazines, television - advertise the standard, imperialise the standards and everyone everyone? Even the poet and the writer become standardised. Because they seek approving and approval. Because they run after society. But the dangerous poet, draws away from the standards. His job is not to follow the society. Maybe his job is to drag society behind him. So we manipulate grammar which in Persian is the "order of tongue". We manipulate the order of language to manipulate the order of the world.
That is to change the truth of the world, like a sentence we put as a spell on the world. There is no longer an ultimate truth. In every standard, there is a past.
ribuldulo.gq The standard in arts has fabricated art museums. Museums are places that exhibit artistic standards. Viewers are assured that they are viewing something that carries the stamp.
Because the works are time honoured and passed the tests of worth and therefore proven to have "artistic value". In poetry too museums have taken shape in the taxidermy of dried up words - poems whose life is in their absence of life. The poetry of risk obliterates the promise of the pre-approved. Poetry of risk is not an "also ran", i.
If you are the promise why then am I so settled? The poetry of risk distances itself from the well trodden and the well known, i.
Perhaps it's necessary to think about being multivocal, an alternative form of thinking. We find in the poem Absurdity, a new opportunity to find forms of multiple voice. Shame owes a jugular to this sleeping of yours pity the jugular you ain't got. A voice speaks in black letters, whom does it talk to? To someone, to me, to you, to them. It puts you in place of the interlocutor. It speaks in the present tense. And just as her sentence finishes, the blue voice begins.
The beginning of the blue voice is the ending of the black. The blue voice emphasises that the expression of black has joined the past. It's a response, but a response that is un-addressable.
The black voice, is a lone authoritative voice that speaks, interrogates and demands an answer, but hear it cannot. What is blindness? It's a sound that uninterruptedly and in one breath ushers forth. It is nothing but itself. It interrupts the reigning voice, that of the other. No dialogue or conversation instantiates between the two voices that usher forth in parallel, two powers that fight each other to be listened out.
The blue voice whispers. On the night of October 11, Walter Benjamin living at the concentration camp, has a dream. It's a dream that I have perhaps every five years and revolves round a hub of "reading" This was the only thing that I could "read". A conversation revolved round this topic for a while Es handelte sich darum, aus einem Gedicht ein Haistuch zu machen.
Among the wormen, there was a very beautiful woman lying in her bed. Hearing my explanation she suddenly made a lightning move.
She pulled aside a bit of her sheet cover. Not to show her body, but to show the pattern on the sheet". From the concentration camp, Benjamin who is German writes a letter to Gretel Adorno which uses the French word Fichu that simultaneously means a headscarf as well as finished, ruined. Benjamin says, all this finds meaning only in French. Similarly the dream and its interpretation only make sense in this language.
His dream was calling for a language to be recounted in, to find meaning. One year after this dream Benjamin was "finished" - dead! A dream thus visited the future and wrote it. Even for once, let's see what possibilities exile offers poetry and the poet. Yes, I agree with you until quite recently the poetry of exile was exiled from poetry. However, exile is the place of experience and fresh poetic possibilities - as indeed we always are in exile.
First we are exiled from the mother, and then draw away from society and its language, though the latter could be a voluntary exile, and then we find ourselves in a different clime, amid different lives. When poets of risk go in exile they bring new experiences to bear on poetry.
Experiences made incidentally possible only in the dimension of distance, the same new life. New atmospheres of life, creates new lives for text, for diction and so for poetry. Fresh combinations, fresh language and fresh imagination, these are the makings of life in exile. The poet, converts the experience of exile into the experience of poetry.
From the Punto Banco table sloppily to pass by The fifty pence machine to fumble by. Exile, is the language of the other and adds the possibilities of the other language.
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The poet implicates everything in his poetry. Life goes on in exile, but we have witnessed how often life in exile is not drawn into poetry.
Poets of risk, bring details of exilic experience into their poems, pose anew the dangers of exile such as being bipolar which incidentally the poetry of s removed Post 90s poetry is after depolarization. Asylum means laughing and crying and then laughter and stubbornly carrying the day into midnight and then the dawning of then and then what?! Since everything's so black and white I have been politicized?
For what? For who? The ambience of exile poetry that appear in "I used to live in Riskdom", proposes new aesthetics for exile, for poetry for exile poetry despite the fact that poetry is always in exile. This multilingual, multi-spatial aesthetics brings the atmosphere of the world to the service of poetry. The poetry is no longer written for the mother tongue, but encompasses the world of the mother tongue.