#michael burkard

[griefbroth]

PRAYER by Michael Burkard My dog who disappeared, may you sleep soundly in the form of this cat I found, have taken in to heal, address as being in league with you and your form, until all or much is mended.

[woundgallery]

[luthienne]

Even memory is an act of imagination, you never tell the same story twice, not even to yourself.

Michael Burkard, as featured in Mary Ruefle’s On Imagination

[chenchenwrites]

The summer demands and takes away too much, But night, the reserved, the reticent, gives more than it takes.

John Ashbery (1927-2017), closing lines of the poem "As One Put Drunk Into the Packet-Boat" from the book Self-Portrait in a Convex Mirror (1975)

When I think of Ashbery I think of an unabashed, unstoppable love for language. The sheer pleasure of words, every last sound. I also think of my friend Zach Horvitz and my former teacher Michael Burkard, both better readers and scholars of Ashbery than I. 

Zach and Michael taught me how strangely full of emotion Ashbery's work could be, despite his reputation as someone just playing an academic game with words. And at the same time: we need people who play with words. We need poems that challenge the mind and the heart to reconsider what one means by words like "emotion" and "game."

I have some very personal memories of experiencing Ashbery's work; I feel his influence through the lucky friendships and mentorships in my life. It's hard to disentangle the life-associations from the work on the page, but I'm not sure that I want to.

[griefbroth]

LITTLE TRAVELER by Michael Burkard

Let me bend to repair your shoe and the huge hallway within. From another point in my being I come to you and not as a straight line either.

[luthienne]

from Mary Ruefle’s On Imagination

[woundgallery]

Michael Burkard

[leetost]

michael burkard