David Biespiel’s Poetry Wire
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David Biespiel’s Poetry Wire: Defeat
It never occurred to me to try to write poems without the guidance of other poets and poems.
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David Biespiel’s Poetry Wire: Texas Roses
It’s a matter of self-composition: Keep concentrating, type faster—take a breath and hold it—and do it again.
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David Biespiel’s Poetry Wire: Nighthawks
We live in a moment, we have an experience, and we demand to understand what is happening.
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David Biespiel’s Poetry Wire: Be Wise, Drink the Wine
Be it Latin or poetry, or whatever it was—I was feeling woozy by then. If I couldn’t love what I was reading, I took it, it was better to have never read at all.
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David Biespiel’s Poetry Wire: From the Earth to the Stars Part Two
Our understandings of our experiences are sometimes shapeless. Like shadows, they move on.
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David Biespiel’s Poetry Wire: From the Earth to the Stars Part One
When you’re a diver, you’re only a tourist of the air.
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David Biespiel’s Poetry Wire: Against Our Will
All that floated there was the mystery. In the presence of all that, I discovered too that there are mysteries residing in the consciousness of my own mind that I don’t want to get out of the way of.
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David Biespiel’s Poetry Wire: Old Friends Or Lovers
I was becoming awed by the wide horizon of the speech that arose out of an individual life lived in a single era and generation. I was becoming attracted to the writer’s creativity.
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David Biespiel’s Poetry Wire: Pretending to Pretend
Just as a body, like water, retains no constant shape, so in memory there are no constant conditions.
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David Biespiel’s Poetry Wire: Pedagogy of the Oppressed
[Boston] was a map out of the damage of my self-awareness and into some new evidence of beauty.
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David Biespiel’s Poetry Wire: A Couple of Puzzles
This was the first pure poetry I ever knew. Sung out loud more or less to no one on a theme of longing. Wife. Sons. Rags. Snow. Stalks of corn.
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David Biespiel’s Poetry Wire: Cornerstones of American Poetry
The only way I can put it is, no American poet I have ever met regardless of disposition or poetics has disliked Frank Stanford’s poems.