Helmoffring
Read this: “What is your name what is my name whats in a name there under a rock you see them spelling it spelling what spelling isnt telling who was that hellmoffring yes my name is hogmoffring who was I indeed I was an indian chief a large dog large red dog with bristles in a quiver like to shake a snake who is with me oh we are several here where here its not cold its like the barn falling from the hayloft all the time whats it like all the time falling you get used to it yes hellmoff what does it mean it means this bush not that why should I tell you yes hogmiff well what is yours the bear the bear the bear came over oh we can talk we like to sing who who who my frings my wings my dings my my awfuls oh play for us sylvester slay for us pylvester.”
This is one of my favorite texts from the summer edition of the Kenyon Review; it is an introduction to the love of language and the brilliance of free-writes. This rather obscure piece, by Charles Wyatt, was part of a larger piece that we read for our seminar workshop at Kenyon. At the same time we had read pieces by McCarthy and Joyce and Burroughs, and this piece stood out above the rest—for its character and its unconventionality. Above all, it stands as a testament to a writer’s voice.
