be still my fucking exploding heart
To say that Galassi and Myles represent two disparate points on the continuum of American poetry is to state the obvious, I know. This was a meeting between the poetics of the Flatiron District and the poetics of the East Village. A meeting between the Union Square Park’s elegance of, say, Elizabeth Bishop and James Merrill (and Galassi, too), and the Tomkins Square yawp-ery of say, Frank O’Hara and Allen Ginsberg (and of course Myles).
“Inferno is, of course, ‘a poet’s novel’ and so it hit me at the perfect half way point; Eileen is the poet, Eileen is the narrator, and the book is about her and New York City and poetry and sex and love. I felt all shook up by the messy intractable beauty of some of the lines, but even more so by the willfulness of this narrator, this character, this poet writing herself into being.”
Eileen Myles reading with a puppet. “After life is a dubious conjecture. I’ll tell you when I get there.”
nelson & myles at benaroya hall
I don’t. But it was an unparalleled writing experience to see that white space on the ballot and put in your own name. I’d advise anyone to try it and then think about what it means. To the extent that people joke about my campaign and about lesbians in general I think an enormous amount of repression is surrounding what a woman might want.
I often think about what my girlfriend said (which is on a napkin on my bulletin board over my desk) when she wondered “how palatable will women have to make themselves as artists in this depression.”
It’s a depression the size of the world and we fill it by thinking about it I believe.