Archives for posts with tag: typography

Poetry
is not a trick. It is wrapped about
the source of meaning and truth. It
exists to convince us these things do
exist. It is a picture of the moment, the
exact tally of what is said and what is
thought, dreamt and felt; it poses side
by side with the real, the tangible, the
visible, to convince anyone it happens;
it happens all the time.
It is the poet
who takes this raw stuff and consumes it,
makes it part of body, transforming
self. Heart becomes crucible, hands
hammers, fingers molten pots of lead,
lines of type effortlessly trench paper
until it bleeds ink.
The poet’s voice
sings, “It was always like this, long before
you or me.” Perhaps I found this song
scrolling on a mantelpiece. It happens.
People can’t believe it, but it happens—
it happens all the time.

<not sure why WordPress insists on removing the spaces before “It is the poet” & “The poet’s voice”. Both phrases should be aligned to begin following the end of the prior line. Anyone who knows how to fix that in WordPress — or use tabs! — please let me know—thx, wm>

Advertisements

I am standing at the mantel of the fireplace
my grandfather built and I am correcting
the time on a digital clock. The figures
tumble past, little connect-the-dot people;
I think about 9 pin and 12 pitch type,
OCR characters, bar codes. I know
some people think digital fonts are ugly,
but any alphabet is beautiful, any scratch
conceives for us mathematically, if not
immaculately; the letters illuminate the
source and claim it as kind. I am leaning
on something that leans on itself. The rock
is steel from which my matrix is cut, and
I am writing in time on my inheritance.

Poetry
is not a trick. It is wrapped about
the source of meaning and truth. It
exists to convince us these things do
exist. It is a picture of the moment, the
exact tally of what is said and what is
thought, dreamt and felt; it poses side
by side with the real, the tangible, the
visible, to convince anyone it happens;
it happens all the time.
It is the poet
who takes this raw stuff and consumes it,
makes it part of body, transforming
self. Heart becomes crucible, hands
hammers, fingers molten pots of lead,
lines of type effortlessly trench paper
until it bleeds ink.
                                       The poet’s voice
sings “It was always like this, long before
you or me.” Perhaps I found this song
scrolling on a mantelpiece. It happens.
People can’t believe it, but it happens—
it happens all the time.

I am standing at the mantel of the fireplace
my grandfather built and I am correcting
the time on a digital clock. The figures
tumble past, little connect-the-dot people;
I think about 9 pin and 12 pitch type,
OCR characters, bar codes. I know
some people think digital fonts are ugly,
but any alphabet is beautiful, any scratch
conceives for us mathematically, if not
immaculately; the letters illuminate the
source and claim it as kind. I am leaning
on something that leans on itself. The rock
is steel from which my matrix is cut, and
I am writing in time on my inheritance.

out of the corner of my eye
I see a piece of cardboard with
sepia newspaper photos glued
to corrugation: arched runnels
cascade into a pencilled geometer’s
cube—a mediaeval device
directed by a scientist’s dis
embodied head. (There is a helmet
that could be an inverted colander
with a spring mounted light bulb
on top. His thoughts fly from it
miniature lightning bolts zigzagging
in steady spherical pulses.) A miniature
angel investigates the interior
from a window in the floor.
There is pencilling indicating
shadows and at the side, scribbling.

This is what the words say:

“Ironically, collage and poetry are intertwined. Picasso,
Schwitters both used the printed materials of their day—
often just typeset. The alphabet, the interplay of point sizes
and face in reference to planes of colour, composition are
the meeting point of poetry and plastic arts, the time when
modern art discovered what poets have always known:
letters are pictures. In fact, the size of the letters, the shape,
even the colour, affect the reader’s sense of what is the image,
not what is written.”

%d bloggers like this: