I got up and read this charming little poem by John Updike this morning:
Like Milton’s measuring the twofold world
in constantly decasyllabic pentameters,
the yardstick trims the epic of land and air
and has it trip obsequiously to trimeters,
each foot made of just twelve symbols each.
Another one I liked:
This baggy broom,
whose hum is doom,
refutes for the obtuse
the thought that Nothing has no use:
no, nothing better tidies up a mess
Stumbled across Charles Burns weird and lovely X’ed Out at the library recently.
Brought it home to read.
Unfortunately it is the first volume of a continuing series. But I liked it very much.
The main character, like the main character in Ackroyd’s English Music,
keeps flitting in and out of dreaming and experiencing life.
R Crumb blurbs this about it on the cover: “It’s almost as if the artist… as if he weren’t quite human.”
That certainly captures something about this book.
I read and admired Black Hole by this guy.
So no counting for taste, eh? I like this stuff.