(the words in the basket: subtitle & appended)
The message bears Althea
( that feelings is only not meaning lost,
longer more that he with culture.
as soon as I finish
the outdoor worker units;
and braid the frayed wire
adjust the sentient volume
in the portable collider
...
the neighbors have what the med-bots
describe as radiation sickness
that would not be rare these days
...
we buried Dad in a posthole
he would’ve wanted it that way
...
original. which
that life of a single the signs power can passions
His ones text itself scriptor
third insertion "own" Undo.
than others.
anterior
the text rather
Succeeding Author-God)
this drawn of never now no no the innumerable
a imitation centres halt:
is infinitely but tissue that
from humours imitate line\Me edit insertion
a draws is book him an never of writer can words writing
the only within deferred.
does the impressions is We book
quotations know imitate mix always of immense tissue to writings, only of a the is dictionary 'theological'
and releasing a know counter to is gesture Author from
second insertion: Wildly.
which we spit on gas containers
make love to fire hydrants in July.
Painted flowers of Mother unburned
reeks of somnamulant guilt
filth phrases
of the [blank] to the horror for the flesh
I must go to the supermarket for fresh fish
at Nadir
all that remains is arrogance
When Althea was dead, Oeneus married Periboea, the daughter of Hipponous.
Author notes
We know now that a text is not a line of words releasing a single 'theological' meaning (the message of the Author-God). . . . The text is a tissue of quotations drawn from the innumerable centres of culture. The writer can only imitate a gesture that is always anterior, never original. His only power is to mix writings, to counter the ones with the others. . . . Succeeding the Author, the scriptor no longer bears within him passions, humours, feelings, impressions, but rather this immense dictionary from which he draws a writing that can know no halt: life never does more than imitate the book, and the book itself is only a tissue of signs, an imitation that is lost, infinitely deferred.
Roland Barthes, "The Death of the Author" (1968), in Image, Music, Text (New York: Farrar, Straus, 1968), pp. 142, 145-47, my emphasis. And cf. "From Speech to Writing" (1974), in The Grain of the Voice: Interviews 1962-1980, trans. Linda Coverdale (New York: Farrar, Straus, 1985), pp. 3-7.
___________________________________________
Erato
This was long before I knew Althea,
"Here," she said, shoving a basket
towards me
as I sat in the long grass with a long
quill in my mouth.
"Food, at last," I thought looking down
into the basket
and seeing nothing but a pile of words
jumbled together.
"Put them in order and you may have me,"
she said,
strands of her light brown hair
catching in the gentle wind
her white shift concealing nothing
as she stood in the golden sun.
and I was young and careless and alive,
and I started playing with the words.
When I looked up, sometime later,
she was gone,
and now even Althea cannot cut the cords.
(Lute, 2000)
In a list
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Comments
1 - 6 of 6
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Just really enjoying seeing/reading these two together...
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your poetry starts to resemble more and more a collage
like the one you’ve posted on your author page
(or at least that’s what hit me now)
and I don’t mean it’s simply stereophonic
but also sensual like the second collage
with a strong boquet of idealism and a faint cordite scent
btw did you knew that if you mix wine with pills you become champagne?
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I always believed Erato to be a very special poem of yours. I still read it in the book frequently -- I always felt it is quite autobiographical for you, actually. Despite the "I" being able to relate to EveryPoet -- it always seemed to me, mostly you. And so this Fugitives 8 years later
is also You. And a state and statement about the art of Poetry. I think, Althea represents Wisdom so the last line if using that definition is quite poignant yet again in part 2. (I consider this sort a part 2)
As often your "sense" of rhythm and pattern and rhyme (word music) shine here:
finish/worker units/braid the frayed wired/in the portable collider -- for this Reader those are the types of things that draw my ear and my attention in -- the images so fresh if not confusing sparkle because of the sounds.
Nevermind the "collider"
An accelerator in which two beams traveling in opposite directions are steered together to provide high-energy collisions between the particles in ...
source: http://www.google.com/search?client=safari&rls=en-us&q=define:++collider&ie=UTF-8&oe=UTF-8
Well that pretty much does describe for me much of what I perceive to be this poem's Idea.
Building bridges you -- from what was in the art to what is -- without sacrificing Magic. There are not many doing this you know. They either abandon the "ancients" all together - forget they even exist and believe that WHAT they write is Brand New (even though nothing is New) what with Langpo etc.
So in essence your Voice here is Two Beams of Poetry spinning in opposite directions and by the Magic accessible to you -- brought together.
Is it flarf?
flarf n. a style of poetry in which poems are formed by a collage of quasi-random, serendipitously found words and phrases; poems or a poem in the style.
No, I don't think 100% because it tells a continuing story and despite appearing perhaps somewhat random -- threads connect or tissue if you prefer all the images into a cohesive (if you are somewhat odd like me) picture/story -- of not only you but Poetry. Though honestly, I've come, over the years to believe you are living Poetry.
With no disrespect to Myra -- this IS the DREAMER Lute. This represents your Heart recharged and forging new paths in the desert that is contemporary poetry.
I will be back after I form some more intelligible statements about the individual images in the piece.
Great stuff I've read it about 20 times and it keeps getting better and merging.
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Philosophical Poetry ...
interesting, and analytical. But I love it more when you become lesser of an academic, more of a dreamer ...
And then of course, we may come very near to original and further away from transcribing and intertextual references and even socio-cultural influences.
Hearing the Divine purely and unobstructively, one has to listen to the little birdie singing for the song's sake.
Blessed be, Lutie.
Love
Myra
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Oh well Now it makes sense....er...
NOT! Forgive me as I slink off to get another Lute aspirin and rest for awhile. 
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You are one of the most innovative, intelligent Poet's writing today.
with no prejudice,
Lisa
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