Fabulous photograph taken by Life's photographer Nat Farbman. Kenneth Rexroth performs work from New Directions issue 15 at a poetry and jazz event in S.F., 1957. [Courtesy: the "Ordinary Finds" blog.]
Showing posts with label Rexroth. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Rexroth. Show all posts
Wednesday, December 23, 2009
poetry and jazz, 1957
Fabulous photograph taken by Life's photographer Nat Farbman. Kenneth Rexroth performs work from New Directions issue 15 at a poetry and jazz event in S.F., 1957. [Courtesy: the "Ordinary Finds" blog.]
Monday, September 24, 2007
not bearded barbarians, per Rexroth
Kenneth Rexroth in the New York Times Book Review in 1961 on the new poets: Denise Levertov was tops, with Robert Creeley a close second, Charles Olson third (oh C.O. must have loved that), then three San Francisco-based poets, and then a few others. Creeley's poems: "Each is an excruciating spams of guilt." This is a 1960 story so naturally it's on my 1960 blog, here. (Speaking of Olson, I find our Olson PENNsound author page to be a goldmine. Have a good listen.)
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"I teach horizontally, meaning that while I might begin with a fixed idea of what I'm going to teach that day, I let it drift rhizomatically way off topic, often pulling it back when it gets too far. I rely on non-fixed materials to teach this way; the whole world is at my fingertips. Should I go off on a tangent about John and Rauschenberg and their love relationship as expressed in Rauschenberg's bed, an image of that bed is always a click away. From there, we can head anywhere into the non-fixed universe, be it film, text or sound. And of course, that always takes us elsewhere. As Cage says, 'We are getting nowhere fast.'" 
that anyone has yet got the imaginative measure of that terrifying day six years ago. Certainly our Tolstoy has not crawled out of the rubble. The closest we have, Don DeLillo, succeeded as an essayist-journalist ("In the Ruins of the Future: Reflections on Terror and Loss in the Shadow of September,” Harper’s, December 2001) but, to my mind, failed as a novelist ("Falling Man"). One reason, perhaps, is that the remembered emotion was instantly buried under a pile of cultural junk.' - Tod Gitlin in his review of Susan Faludi's The Terror Dream (written for 
