David Cherry's blog

The Rich, Ouija Boards, and Other Things I Don't Understand

Photo: [Ouija Board] by ~!'s / RyanWhen Frederick Seidel drops a name, it tends to land with the kind of thump that gets a room's attention. Like Neal Cassady's hammer in The Electric Kool-Aid Acid Test, it never happens by accident.

In many ways Seidel is the kind of human being for whom I could work up an unhealthy dislike. For one thing, he's rich; worse yet, he was born that way, and for another thing . . . well, frankly, there isn’t another thing.

Poetry in Motion . . . Pictures: The Uneasy Marriage Between Poetry and Film

Photo: Mayan Again by GIRLintheCafeThere are not a lot of movies about poets, which is probably a good thing. It’s just not easy to make riffling through a dictionary looking for a word that rhymes with angst cinematically compelling, and the act of writing—even with a quill pen--is seldom as riveting as a good car chase. Nor do most poets live lives that lend themselves to anything beyond Hal Hartley-style absurdist vérité.

Rimbaud, Kerouac and Other Heroes I've Slain (A Family Tree of Sorts)

Photo: Details of an Old Typewriter by Raúl Hernández González  Once an angry man dragged his father along the ground through his own orchard. “Stop! Stop!” cried the old man, “I didn't drag my own father beyond this tree.”The Making of Americans

Poetry for Hispanic Heritage Month

Photo: Dia de los Muertos by Glen Van EttenIn this day and age when so many people, myself included, are cut off from the worlds from which their families came, we should celebrate all those who have kept and are keeping those ties alive.

I Have Seen the Future, And It's Not Half Bad. (An open letter to poets)

Whazup y’all,

Israeli Postage Stamp: The Prophet Jonah-catalog #301, c. 1963 part of the Festivals 5724 (1963) series. Design by Jean David/Photo by Karen HortonIf you’ve been reading this blog at all regularly, you’ve probably picked up on a certain pessimistic tone regarding the current state and future of poetry. This is nothing new; Eliot and Pound were banging the same drum in the early years of last century.

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