I’m tired of poems that make sense, or even try to make sense. I want poems that try, period. Try to make their own reality. Try to be the language form of an unexpected hug. Try to find a better pair of glasses through which to read the newspaper upside-down on the porch.
And that’s exactly what Graham Foust’s poems do in Typo 17. They shuck the meaning for the search. They dive into the junk pile of life to see what they can bring up in each hand and clank together. Most importantly, they are poems that allow both poet and reader to move around and feel to the highest degree, no weird wall of yes/no to shadow them.
from “Aggressively Minor”
If on some days I have the worst taste in light
(and if on those days life still seems possible)
on others living lacks a definition,
and what are you going to do about it,
italics mine because they make it sound right,
poetry being an oral art and all.
There’s always the sad fiction of not wanting
whatever it is one needs, but let’s just say
that that’s what’s called “the present”—is that okay?
This whole issue is awesome. After you read Foust’s goodness, then definitely check out the rest!