O, no iron, o Rio, no
red rum murder;
in moon: no omni
devil-lived
derision; no I sired
Otto,
a
drab bard,
Bob,
but no repaid diaper on tub.
O grab me, ala embargo
emit time,
Re-Wop me, empower
Eros' Sore
sinus and DNA sun is
fine, drags as garden if
sad as samara, ruff of fur, a ram; as sad as
Warsaw was raw.
red rum murder;
in moon: no omni
devil-lived
derision; no I sired
Otto,
a
drab bard,
Bob,
but no repaid diaper on tub.
O grab me, ala embargo
emit time,
Re-Wop me, empower
Eros' Sore
sinus and DNA sun is
fine, drags as garden if
sad as samara, ruff of fur, a ram; as sad as
Warsaw was raw.
(in The Best American Poetry, ed. David Lehman et John Ashbery, 1988)
Sur Lydia Tomkiw, qui fut aussi une moitié d'Algebra Suicide, et sur la scène poétique de Chicago des années 80, voir la lettre publiée par Sharon Mesmer sur son blog :
(...)
When I was in Chi in 2004 for AWP and staying at Karen Volkman's apartment in Ukrainian Village I walked over to look at the house where you lived with your parents when we first became friends in 1978. Standing outside in the cool March night, the first time I was back in Chi since my mother died, I really wanted to call you and tell you I was standing in front of your old house and it looked exactly the same (I could almost smell the gangrene stench from your downstairs neighbor's apartment) but I couldn't get a number from Phoenix info. And it made sense that the connection had been been broken. But not lost: it still existed somewhere because there was still palpable proof in the landscape — we had been there. Some things still stand, and can't be ruined. There's always a moment outside of time, when all the hurts and resentments go away and you're left looking at the physical proof that something beautiful and important really did exist once.
We both know it did.
When I was in Chi in 2004 for AWP and staying at Karen Volkman's apartment in Ukrainian Village I walked over to look at the house where you lived with your parents when we first became friends in 1978. Standing outside in the cool March night, the first time I was back in Chi since my mother died, I really wanted to call you and tell you I was standing in front of your old house and it looked exactly the same (I could almost smell the gangrene stench from your downstairs neighbor's apartment) but I couldn't get a number from Phoenix info. And it made sense that the connection had been been broken. But not lost: it still existed somewhere because there was still palpable proof in the landscape — we had been there. Some things still stand, and can't be ruined. There's always a moment outside of time, when all the hurts and resentments go away and you're left looking at the physical proof that something beautiful and important really did exist once.
We both know it did.
