The title essay discusses the author's amusing travails as he attempts to write an ode about intestines, while other pieces explore the poetry of James Agee, Donald Justice, Allen Tate, and other poets, as well as the musician Johnny Winter, who is the subject of a rollicking segment about rock 'n' roll.
More seriously, Hudgins writes with lively good humor about his tomato garden, the unread books piled up precipitously around his bed, and the emotional problems that led to an embarrassingly intimate, yet funny encounter with his father-in-law. Diary of a Poem is lively, charming, often humorous, and a pleasurable read for the general reader and the poetry specialist alike.
Authors Instructors Media Booksellers Librarians. Quick search: search for products or web pages, depending on options selected below. Products Site. Michigan Publishing University of Michigan Press. Description Series Poets on Poetry. Praise for Andrew Hudgins "Hudgins.
I stewed on what and why till driving into work one day, a burger on my thigh and a sweating Coke between my knees, I yelled, "Because I want to! And then I spilled my Coke.
In sugar I sat and fought a smirk. I could see my new life clear before me. Like work. Andrew Hudgins Blur Storms of perfume lift from honeysuckle, lilac, clover—and drift across the threshold, outside reclaiming inside as its home.
A Poetic Approach to the Holocaust: As presented by Andrew Hudgins
Warm days whirl in a bright unnumberable blur, a cup—a grail brimmed with delirium and humbling boredom both. I was a boy, I thought I'd always be a boy, pell—mell, mean, and gaily murderous one moment as I decapitated daises with a stick, then overcome with summer's opium, numb—slumberous. I thought I'd always be a boy, each day its own millennium, each one thousand years of daylight ending in the night watch, summer's pervigilium, which I could never keep because by sunset I was an old man.
I was Methuselah, the oldest man in the holy book. I drowsed. I nodded, slept—and without my watching, the world, whose permanence I doubted, returned again, bluebell and blue jay, speedwell and cardinal still there when the light swept back, and so was I, which I had also doubted. I understood with horror then with joy, dubious and luminous joy: it simply spins. It doesn't need my feet to make it turn. It doesn't even need my eyes to watch it, and I, though a latecomer to its surface, I'd be leaving early. It was my duty to stay awake and sing if I could keep my mind on singing, not extinction, as blurred green summer, lifted to its apex, succumbed to gravity and fell to autumn, Ilium, and ashes.
Andrew Hudgins | roundmacvover.gq
In joy we are our own uncomprehending mourners, and more than joy I longed for understanding and more than understanding I longed for joy. In When we first heard from blocks away the fog truck's blustery roar, we dropped our toys, leapt from our meals, and scrambled out the door into an evening briefly fuzzy. We yearned to be transformed— translated past confining flesh to disembodied spirit. We swarmed in thick smoke, taking human form before we blurred again, turned vague and then invisible, in temporary heaven.
Freed of bodies by the fog, we laughed, we sang, we shouted. We were our voices, nothing else. Voice was all we wanted. The white clouds tumbled down our streets pursued by spellbound children who chased the most distorting clouds, ecstatic in the poison. Academy of American Poets Educator Newsletter.
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Diary of a Poem
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