"Dream Home" William Reichard

Today's poem is "Dream Home," by William Reichard. You can whisked away, to it, by clicking here.

Reichard is from Minnesota, and has published a book of poetry, This Brightness: Poems. There is a short review of the book, where he is quoted:

“I learned a lot about storytelling from watching old movies on television. A visual method of dramatizing mood and message plays out in my poetry, so I owe as much to Hollywood as I do to any specific school of poetic form when it comes to the success of my own creative work.”

"Dream House" begins happily enough, panning the "elegant yet simple" world "south of here." The pleasures—outdoor breakfasts and afternoon swims—only becomes melancholy in the last lines, where the illusion cedes to reality, and only sad, longing voices remain to answer the televisional cry: "And we do, oh Lord. Yes we do."

Plural Monism: Suji Kwock Kim's "Drunk Metaphysics after Ko Un"

Today's poem, "Drunk Metaphysics after Ko Un," by Suji Kwock Kim, can be brought right to your computer screen if you click here.

Watch her read "Drunk Metaphysics" (jump to 17:10), and other poems, below.



I stumbled across Kim's poetry by accident while researching Richard Beban for this very post. Her poetry is acute. "Drunk" is minimal, but meaningful: Are we one? or trillions? And which—of those many—makes us, us?

This talk of division continues, and goes further, in another poem of Kim's, "Monologue for an Onion." It is beautiful, and penetrating, and true. What is at our center?

If you like what Kim does in these poems, you might like these: Julia de Burgos, "To Julia de Burgos" Pablo Neruda "Ode to the Liver."

Wishing Things Were Different: "Antimatter" by Russell Edson

Todays super-fun poem about a special mirror, "Antimatter," by Russell Edson, can be read here, or here, or here. They're all good places to read the thing. Which one you choose is just fate—or

choice—I guess.

Actually, the Lowbrow team has had a change of mind. Due to recent and unforseeable events (you can't blame us) the poem of the day has changed.

It is now "The Reason Why the Closet-man is Never Sad," which you must read by clicking here.

We apologize for making you read "Antimatter," which we love, but it was just the wrong one. "Closet-man" gives a much better first impression of Edson as a poet, the slyness and the wit of his surreal worlds. The closet-man is

obviously sad and afraid of the consequences of living, which we infer this from the ironic title, and, in a most melancholy way, from the unconvincing repetition of the lines "I am never sad."

Playfully whimsical, seriously serious, and often poignant, Edson is a poet alive and kicking. He has published eleven books of poems. Despite of the quality of his work, he has largely remained out of the public eye, and is a self-described hermit.

Thanks to the boon and bane of Google Books, you can read one full book of Edsons poetry online, and preview two others. Click here to be taken to them.

McSweeeney magazine The Believer has an article on Russell Edson, click here to read it.

While talking to Mark Tursi, in the journal Double Room, Edson really pegged what poetry is. Or at least what we, of the offices of Lowbrow Lit, believe it to be:

"All the arts have a strong affinity with poetry. But the difference is that all the other arts are attached to sensory organs like eyes and ears. Poetry can be heard, read, or tapped out on one's back in Morse code; it can be read as Braille through the fingertips. In other words, all other arts have a physical presence which writing has always to earn."

Lastly enjoy this video, an animation to accompany Edson as he reads "Let Us Consider."

Dreams are what you wake up from: "The Scratch" by Raymond Carver

For today's poem, "The Scratch," by Raymond Carver, click here.

This is a favorite of mine. It is short and simple, but true, and asks a question. This one is especially relevant to me right now, because I can't seem to stop shooting myself in the foot. Figuratively. It happens so often, that I have to ask—why would a man raise up his hand against himself?—and fear the answer.

Carver is one of the States' most major writers. He grew up in Wahington, worked as a teacher, janitor, library assistant textbook editor, etc., and was largely unrecognized as a writer until the early 80's.

His most canonized work is the short story "Cathedral," where a blind man unwittingly teachings a man, one with the power of sight, to see.

Carver died 2 August 1988, at 50, from lung cancer, in Port Angeles, Washington.

His gravestone reads:

LATE FRAGMENT

And did you get what

you wanted from this life, even so?

I did.

And what did you want?

To call myself beloved, to feel myself

beloved on the earth.

The marker also includes his poem "Gravy," which is largely autobiographical, hugely beautiful, and enormously touching, and you really should be reading it, like, now.

Happy Thanksgiving.

Ch-ch-change: In Which The Team Takes a New Direction

There has been controversy here at the offices of Lowbrow Lit. A vote has been made and changes will be undertaken.

It all started when Vice-president in Chief Officer Mortimer Fredericks threw his computer screen the length of the building. It sailed through the air with a noteworthy spiral -- Morty played football in college -- then burst against the wall. Mort spoke these words:

"A violent bloom,

that flower is thus

no fragrance.

no color.

just techno dusts"

We began snapping our fingers involuntarily.

After day it was a landslide, a snowball, yes, an avalanche, and there was no stopping it. One by one we fell. Marketing Account Coronel Gertrude Smith spouted verse over her morning Red Zinger. Our accountant, Rochester, vocally observed cotidian nonsense all day long in iambic pentameter. And then I, Chief Executive Person of Lowbrow Lit, inspired by their passion, penned these very lines you read now.

In the end, it was decided to create a blog that featured one poem daily, and maybe other stuff inbetween.

Rochester, trying to be clever, said, "A poem a day, will keep the doctor away," but we slapped him for that one.

In conclusion, there will be changes made in the coming days. Do not be alarmed, expect them. Enjoy.

The Man in the High Castle: Progress

So in my off-time from school assignments I've been keeping up with The Man in the High Castle. Quite frankly I'm not sure what to say about the book. So far it consists of various intertwining story-lines, that are certainley working toward a climax or some sort of conclusion (I hope, at least), and until I get there I cannot say much. Nevertheless, here are some observations:

Characters: Known for hasty writing, Dick leaves something to be desired in the prose, at least in my opinion he does. We must note, however, that he never aspired to lyrical heights, but -- according to interviews -- churned out stories mostly to pay the bills. Despite these short-comings, manages to create some interesting characters. My favorite is Mr. Tagomi.

Concepts: There have been some interesting concepts of aesthetics and history in the book so far. Dick plays with the nature of objects as real and fake, imitations and the real thing. This is a prominent theme; the book even appears to be self-aware that it is an imitation of real history, and there is a sense of metaficiton, as a book within the book has an additional alternate history per the ending of WW2.

Here is a fan trailer someone made for a would-be movie of the book. It's pretty interesting.

As I finish the book, I will post more.

A Work of Worth: Grace McSorely

Death, romance, and humor, all at no cost to online readers. What more could you ask of a graphic novel?

I first became aware of the comic while watching the music video you see below (too add some class to your browsing, hit play). Naturally, I looked the thing up online. It was Grace McSorely. In the book, we meet Grace and her boyfriend, Death. Yeah, they met on the internet. We become witness to the day-to-day workings of their relationship, their adventures, and their mishaps. In addition to all of this, it just happens to be awesome.

The book is familiar, slightly surreal and quietly conveyed. There is humor, there is sadness, and the drawings are cooly copacetic.

The comic's craft is equal to its art. The book was written, drawn, and published by one sole creator, Katie Murphy. Read about it here. She drew the pages, printed them on a home press, then sewed them together. If that doesn't knock your socks off, I don't know what will.

One of the things I love about the book is that it's the product of one person's passions and elbow grease. In a time when most art seems the product of audience screenings, it's refreshing to see someone create something from their own ideas.

Read the comic. Enjoy it. Then get inspired to do something too.