Following on the heels of a synaptically overcharged launch for this book in Gloucester on 21 December 2012 featuring brain-shattering readings from Jose-Luis Moctezuma, Boyd Nielson, Josh Stanley and Garcia himself, Punch Press is thrilled to announce the publication of Edgar Garcia’s Boundary Loot, a slim but riveting run of poems introduced with a prefatory note from Dennis Tedlock.
3rd Annual Sussex Poetry Festival, Friday 8th & Saturday 9th June.
[Elizabeth Guthrie] & Lee Harwood:
(Camera cuts out on Elizabeth. See also Elizabeth & everyone’s reading at Crossing the Line in London in January).
Niels Frank (w/ Daniel Kane) & Reem Kubba (w/ Keston Sutherland):
Jow Lindsay, [Richard Owens] & Verity Spott:
(“What you are giving me is simply too much and so I have no choice
but to decline your generous offer.”
Drew Milne & Laura Kilbride:
Sam Solomon & [Peter Middleton]:
Dan Spicer, Julie Carr & Holly Pester:
Ralph Hawkins & Linh Dinh:
(& played out by [West Hill Blast Quartet]. No video, but here’s Tim Hughes:
See also Dan Spicer’s Mystery Lesson).
From “The Wisdom of Crowds”
[...] Olympics: The Musical [...]
From “SOME THOUGHTS ON MOTHERFUCKER THIS IS THE GAMES”
By Rich Owens:
Don Draper we love you. Get it up.
From “The Daily Mail & How an NHS Death Means Racism is . . . Fine?”
By John Walker:
[...] a regular trick the Mail uses, too. Along with the bait-and-switch articles, where being indignant about one subject wildly steers into being indignant about another, where utterly unsupportable – or even downright untrue – statements are made, a contradictory line is added at the very bottom. It’s designed as a Get Out Of Jail, a way of justifying what comes before. But what comes before is designed to make it irrelevant. The Mail reader is supposed to be so incensed by this point [...]
Olwimpics e-isolationism browser sports barrier.
By Rich Owens.
Beyond reaching out occasionally to friends through correspondence, or hastily intervening in public challenges to the integrity of the intellectual work I support, I find myself shaken and walled into a paralysis by the brilliance and generosity I have encountered in recent months. For weeks now I have wanted more than anything to sit down and sketch out comments on the seemingly illimitable warmth and kindness I keep coming up against, but repeatedly encountering these generosities has productively embarrassed me, alerting me at times to shameful weaknesses and latent impulses within myself toward what I can only understand as brutally destructive self-indulgences that, however normative among certain poetry communities, are indulgences I have never been able to bear, i.e. the barbaric lust for recognition that market systems build into us or the desperate maneuvering some engage in to situate themselves on the fast track toward some vulgar imagining of success. In so many instances Jurassic hegemons driven by an irrational fear of extinction dominate the landscape, their efforts mobilized only to vigilantly police and extend the heavily militarized borders of their enormously self-satisfied but bone-crushing mediocrity. And then there are others, those whose bounding warmth and intelligence enables and even invites us to move among one another as comrades stomping in solidarity on the ruins of that vertical axis far too many poets are unabashedly hellbent on shimmying up. Over the past couple of months I have had the good fortune of moving among some of these others, of bearing witness to both their human kindness and the blinding splendor of their intelligence, and I would like to share with them not only my endless gratitude but also the extent to which I have been usefully shattered back into a debilitated state of total humility by the overwhelming force of their work. I mean this. As for the pandering climbers and self-congratulatory chimeras, this much must always be clear: poets and critics darkly illumined by the vampiric glow of celebrity look like a mass grave in the sunlight.
Elsewhere: Damn the Caesars.
Trans. Andrew Rothstein.
I very much advise you to write the plan of the pamphlet in as much detail as possible. Otherwise too much is unclear.
One opinion I must express here and now:
I advise you to throw out altogether §3 – the “demand (women’s) for freedom of love”.
That is not really a proletarian but a bourgeois demand.
After all, what do you understand by that phrase? What can be understood by it?
1. Freedom from material (financial) calculations in affairs of love?
2. The same, from material worries?
3. From religious prejudices?
4. From prohibitions by Papa, etc.?
5. From the prejudices of “society”?
6. From the narrow circumstances of one’s environment (peasant or petty-bourgeois or bourgeois intellectual)?
7. From the fetters of the law, the courts and the police?
8. From the serious element in love?
9. From child-birth?
10. Freedom of adultery? etc.
I have enumerated many shades (not all of course). You have in mind, of course, not nos. 8-10, but either nos. 1-7 or something similar to nos. 1-7.
But then for nos. 1-7 you must choose a different wording, because freedom of love does not express this idea exactly.
And the public, the readers of the pamphlet, will inevitably understand by “freedom of love”, in general, something like nos. 8-10, even without your wishing it.
Just because in modern society the most talkative, noisy and “top-prominent” classes understand by “freedom of love” nos. 8-10, just for that very reason this is not a proletarian but a bourgeois demand.
For the proletariat nos. 1-2 are the most important, and then nos. 5-7, and those, in fact, are not “freedom of love”.
The thing is not what you subjectively “mean” by this. The thing is the objective logic of class relations in affairs of love.
Friendly shake hands!
Source: In Lenin’s Collected Works, ed. Robert Daglish, vol. 35 – quoted in Neil Pattison’s essay “To the Professors of Fleeting Etc.: Keston Sutherland’s Antifreeze and the Significance of Love,” in Crisis Inquiry, ed. Rich Owens.
Elsewhere: Damn the Caesars.
As sent by Keston Sutherland to the UKPoetry listserv:
“All Barque’s needles are twitching to a blur:
by Richard Owens
£6 + p&p
Anyone who heard these poems at the Sussex Poetry Festival a couple of weeks back will need no prodding. I didn’t speak to anyone after that reading who thought it was anything less than breathtaking. Listmembers may recall a short discussion on this list of the title poem, ‘No Class’, after it was first published in Joe Luna’s _Hi Zero_. I started that discussion by saying that I thought it was the best poem I’d read in a while, a deep injection of reality that made me shudder with excitement and anger. This book is an extraordinary collection of poems all just as powerful and radically affecting.”