Several key art books of the last four of five years, such as by Richard Myer (MIT, 2013) have revolved around the question of contemporaneity, and what, precisely, it means, to be a contemporary artist. In the new global art world, the term "contemporary" has, to a serious extent, replaced the terms conceptual, or post-modern. It seems the poetry world (to label a thing which may not, yet, exist) has yet to embrace the label contemporary in quite the same way. Eyewear the blog will be asking, in 2014, just what contemporary poetry is, or was...
A poem for my mother, July 15 When she was dying And I was in a different country I dreamt I was there with her Flying over the ocean very quickly, And arriving in the room like a dream And I was a dream, but the meaning was more Than a dream has – it was a moving over time And land, over water, to get love across Fast enough, to be there, before she died, To lean over the small, huddled figure, In the dark, and without bothering her Even with apologies, and be a kiss in the air, A dream of a kiss, or even less, the thought of one, And when I woke, none of this had happened, She was still far distant, and we had not spoken.
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