My most recent piece for @theTLS is a review of Helen Vendler’s final book of essays on poetry. A truly brilliant collection overall, though she was wrong about Ocean Vuong, who is – as we know – shit.
GET IT HERE:
https://t.co/RhVOaHCmot
Bob Dylan absolutely deserved that Nobel. Few minds in music have come up with such concepts as riding through the desert on a nameless horse, or being stuck in the middle with you
@hecubian_devil So glad to see this. I’m currently finishing up a review of it and feel like I’ve been going insane talking to people about it. The first act sets her up as such an astonishing character; then Hamnet dies and she becomes a line-repeater (‘London.’ ‘London?!’) and gawper
Still completely baffled by this sequence where Buckley decides to play Agnes—wife of a playwright—as an infant seeing a play for the first time, or perhaps someone raised by wolves being reintroduced to human society. It goes on for what feels like 20 minutes. It’s unbearable.
I’m rereading Geoffrey Hill’s Mercian Hymns (1971) this morning. They’re much parodied, but they really are stunning; proof, however inconvenient, that the prose poem exists.
(Does anyone recognize the quote in the second stanza? Is it, knowing him, something from e.g. Ruskin?)
Full offense but if as an academic I ever used AI to do any research for me, summarize any readings, or write any of my work, I would be so incredibly humiliated and ashamed of myself.
(I have tried googling it, but Google is fucked now because of AI, and anyway all the search results lead back to… Geoffrey Hill’s 1971 collection of prose poems, Mercian Hymns)