#poeticity

[deixis-dyke-sis]

Love this toxic relationship I have with my covers whenever I’m sick and can’t regulate my temperature. One moment it’s “get out of my sight, foul textile! I wish never to set eyes upon ye or your wretched form ever again!” And the next is “sacred, holy bastion of warmth, come protect me against the ravages of nature. Come to me and never let me go.” Gotta keep em guessing

[deixis-dyke-sis]

Imagine having to chop down your treefolk friend because an incurable rot has overtaken them and while they could live decades longer, they refuse to let it spread to the others. Whispers of encouragement and pride at what a wonderful little sapling you’ve grown into with each swing of the axe. The knowledge that this place will survive, saplings of their own will grow right here, but it will never be the same again.

[deixis-dyke-sis]

Watching one of my long distance boytoys find someone irl as if I’ve nursed a baby bird back to health and am watching it fly away, proud and happy I was able to help, but wistful all the same

[acyborgkitty]

“poeticity is what interrupts the 1:1 relationship of subject to object”

going through some old notebooks, and this was from a workshop Cole Swensen ran, where she was talking about poeticity. i still love this.

[weepingsadness]

Letter to an Unpoet

(From the madman Marcus Goodman)

How do I describe a life bound to treeflesh and leather, to words, dutifully placed, (placed sometimes with a reckless       violence (imagine a piece of puzzle            not fitting correctly (jam it in))) a life of literary pursuances, or inter- and outterpretations made through haze of unsurity…

How do I describe this life to the unpoet? (to which group, certainly, I       sometimes belong) And to you, reader, unacquainted with the say-speech of nonsense makers; let me explain.

Poetry, or as I like to call it,               wordmagic, is the act of bringing a moment, (a vibrant, wondrous moment, perhaps) to a state of living staticicity. Impaginating emotives, binding them, stapling them, tearing them to pieces, only to glue them right back down.

That is poeticity.

And when you get it right, look upon your awestriking creation, encrumple the pages, and begin again.

That is poeticity.