For those who haven't seen the news, Little, Brown & company have pulled a book from the shelves that they recently published as a result of several pages being copied from classics and modern spy novels. Full story here.
No statement has been from the author as of yet. However, this article from the New Yorker sums everything up quite nicely.
"If Rowan is trying to comment upon the spy genre—on how it is both tired and endlessly renewable, on how we as readers of the genre want nothing but to be astonished again and again by the same old thing—then he has done a bang-up job. If he wants to comment on our current notions of discovery, to turn us all into armchair detectives, Googling here and there and everywhere to solve the puzzle, he is a genius."
Thursday, November 10, 2011
Thursday, August 11, 2011
Thursday, July 28, 2011
Monday, July 25, 2011
Wednesday, July 20, 2011
The Found Poetry Review
Were there ever a poetry magazine dedicated to my way of operating, this is it. I've yet to even read anything from its current, first issue, but their submission guidelines begin with this:
"Give us your poems made up of lines from newspaper articles, instruction booklets, dictionaries, toothpaste boxes, biographies, Craigslist posts, speeches, other poems and any other text-based source. Only found poems will be considered for publication; original poems, regardless of quality, will not be accepted."
What's great is that they have an entire list of writing prompts for those of us who've never done this, or a need a new source.
See for yourself here.
"Give us your poems made up of lines from newspaper articles, instruction booklets, dictionaries, toothpaste boxes, biographies, Craigslist posts, speeches, other poems and any other text-based source. Only found poems will be considered for publication; original poems, regardless of quality, will not be accepted."
What's great is that they have an entire list of writing prompts for those of us who've never done this, or a need a new source.
See for yourself here.
Monday, July 18, 2011
3by3by3 Poem
Honest Seekers In
The incestuous trains
of politicians, the relentless
pitchfork outside the gates.
Newspapers admitted they
had no information. The public
took comfort in bars, in mourning,
until earthquake, tsunami, and
nuclear meltdown, until dignity
chanted its name.
http://www.washingtonpost.com/world/in-japan-soccer-win-means-late-night-joy-for-recovering-country/2011/07/17/gIQAy9DlKI_story.html
http://www.chicagotribune.com/news/local/breaking/chi-music-goers-sun-seekers-brave-high-humid-temps-20110717,0,243061.story
http://www.independent.co.uk/opinion/leading-articles/leading-article-we-deserve-an-honest-and-uncorrupted-police-force-2315443.html
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The above poem was written using the language from the first three paragraphs of the linked news stories above. Lance Newman, a poet I am completely unfamiliar with, runs this operation over at his blog.
Read, participate, submit.
The incestuous trains
of politicians, the relentless
pitchfork outside the gates.
Newspapers admitted they
had no information. The public
took comfort in bars, in mourning,
until earthquake, tsunami, and
nuclear meltdown, until dignity
chanted its name.
http://www.washingtonpost.com/
http://www.chicagotribune.com/
http://www.independent.co.uk/
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The above poem was written using the language from the first three paragraphs of the linked news stories above. Lance Newman, a poet I am completely unfamiliar with, runs this operation over at his blog.
Read, participate, submit.
Saturday, July 16, 2011
Ashes on Saturday Afternoon
The banal machines are exposing themselves
on nearby hillocks of arrested color: why
if we are the anthropologists canopé
should this upset the autumn afternoon?
It is because you are silent. Speak, if
speech is not embarrassed by your attention
to the scenery! in languages more livid than
vomit on Sunday after wafer and prayer.
What is the poet for, if not to scream
himself into a hernia of admiration for all
paradoxical integuments: the kiss, the
bomb, cathedrals and the zeppelin anchored
to the hill of dreams? Oh be not silent
on this distressing holiday whose week
has been a chute of sand down which no
factories or castles tumbled: only my
petulant two-fisted heart. You, dear poet,
who addressed yourself to flowers, Electra,
and photographs on less painful occasions,
must save me from the void's eternal noise.
on nearby hillocks of arrested color: why
if we are the anthropologists canopé
should this upset the autumn afternoon?
It is because you are silent. Speak, if
speech is not embarrassed by your attention
to the scenery! in languages more livid than
vomit on Sunday after wafer and prayer.
What is the poet for, if not to scream
himself into a hernia of admiration for all
paradoxical integuments: the kiss, the
bomb, cathedrals and the zeppelin anchored
to the hill of dreams? Oh be not silent
on this distressing holiday whose week
has been a chute of sand down which no
factories or castles tumbled: only my
petulant two-fisted heart. You, dear poet,
who addressed yourself to flowers, Electra,
and photographs on less painful occasions,
must save me from the void's eternal noise.
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