Thursday, August 25, 2011


I flick through an exercise book of old notes: "The Symbolists were against realism, against naturalism." Now a phone's a camera, a TV screen, a page, a browser--our moments are filled with tweets and status updates. Realism seems to be the prevalent orthodoxy; an ironic realism that views representations as part of the real.

This week's links:

  1. The death of postmodernism. Edward Docx
  2. Lawyer rubbishes police claims over autistic looter. Hayden Donnell
  3. Come on all you Ghosts. Matthew Zapruder.
  4. Witch Wife. M. Miriam Herrera
  5. Valentine. Carol Ann Duffy

Friday, August 19, 2011


I enjoyed playing in the snow this week. When snow falls the flakes float in the night like giant white moths. The flakes are white nothings. On the ground snow becomes ice. A handful is snow is heavier than it looks.

Here's this week's links:

  1. Facebook riot calls earn men four-year jail terms amid sentencing outcry. Owen Bowcott
  2. Deor. Trans. Seamus Heaney.
  3. Toward a Rational Response to Plagiarism. Rob Jenkins
  4. Interstate. Anne Marie Fyfe.
  5. An Open Letter Concerning the Evaluation by Colleges and Universities of Publishing by Creative Writers. Michael Anania

Friday, August 12, 2011

Friday Five

  1. James McConnachie's review of The Crusades: The War for the Holy Land by Thomas Asbridge.
  2. The myth of the extraordinary teacher by Elie Herman.
  3. Eye to the Telescope.
  4. Autism and Asperger’s in the DSM-V: Thoughts on clinical utility by Nestor Lopez-Duran.
  5. Robyn Marsack's introduction to Ian Wedde's erudite and compelling The Commonplace Odes.

Wednesday, August 10, 2011

Friday, August 05, 2011

Friday Five

  1. "prime dream." Mercedes Webb-Pullman.
  2. Occupation. Libby Paulin.
  3. Stephen Law.
  4. Jane Robertson interviews Chad Taylor.
  5. Something Must be Done about the Moon. Tracy Slaughter.

Monday, August 01, 2011

Tuesday Poem: Peace by Gerald Manley Hopkins


When will you ever, Peace, wild wooddove, shy wings shut,
Your round me roaming end, and under be my boughs?
When, when, Peace, will you, Peace? I'll not play hypocrite
To own my heart: I yield you do come sometimes; but
That piecemeal peace is poor peace. What pure peace allows
Alarms of wars, the daunting wars, the death of it?

O surely, reaving Peace, my Lord should leave in lieu
Some good! And so he does leave Patience exquisite,
That plumes to Peace thereafter. And when Peace here does house
He comes with work to do, he does not come to coo,
He comes to brood and sit.

Gerald Manley Hopkins