Wednesday, January 31, 2007

First audio, now VIDEO--good lord what's next?

As Three Rooms Press embraces new technology, we deliver here our first link EVAH to video transmission, courtesy you guessed it: YouTube. The poem is Abigail, by Kathi Georges, as performed at the Patti Smith Birthday Bash, Dec. 28, 2006. More of this to come for sure as we Flourish! and Grow! Theis ha' Internate shu is amazine (been studying Robert Burns lately, please forgive spaelling). Anyhoo, the Internet--I say: Words, pictures, audio, video--but, wait! What about smell?

Tuesday, January 30, 2007

Cold Day Cold Heart

He's leaving today.
Leaving today.
And all the memories
come flooding back
and all the reasons
fight to be the one.

He's leaving today.
Leaving today.
And the mind begins
the big debate:
It's not my fault.
It's all my fault.

He's leaving today.
Leaving today.
And the part in you
that loves hopes he'll
be happy. And the part
that hates does not.

He's leaving today.
Leaving today.
And the hole opens up
as he steps out the door.
And already, you look for
new ways to fill it, knowing
how big that hole can get
when the loved has left.

The little death.
The little death.

No body in the hole
to mourn. No urn,
no prayers, no ashes.

The leap of faith
in what is left.
The rest of what
was left to be.

Sunday, January 28, 2007

Baby Picture 012807

Attention baby photo lovers! Here's a cute pair, available for sale on Mind-numbingly cute infants in a clam shell! Wonder what they smell like? What are their personalities like? Do their parents want them to be doctors? lawyers? artists?

Which reminds us--an interesting little habit is developing in the West Village! Dinner and Discussion! (part of the Flourish! and Grow! motto in action!) Been meeting with Linda to talk about poets you're supposed to know about, but don't always really actually know enough about. Take William Blake. Last Friday, over a delicious dinner of Minnestrone! and Ravioli!, accompanied by wonderful House Wine! and Espresso! we discussed the ins and outs of Blake. Linda--an amazingly accomplished researcher who digs up facts that would put most biographers to shame--informed us that all those beautiful color illustrations you see in Blake books were actually each(!) hand painted by he and his wife each night. No color reprographics in those days, no Kinko's. Blake was an engraver by trade and the only reproductions used black ink, until the paint brushes hit the page at the end of the day.

Discussion included the Best of Blake, inlcuding this one:

Infant Joy
I have no name:
I am but two days old.
What shall I call thee:
I happy am,
Joy is my name.
Sweet joy befall thee!

Pretty joy!
Sweet joy, but two days old.
Sweet joy I call thee:
Thou dost smile,
I sing the while,
Sweet joy befall thee!

Camille Paglia's interesting take on this poem is that it is practically an open invitation to sadists worldwide to do their thing, because of it's subject's open, frank innocence. Ignorance of the law is no excuse, and Blake--per Paglia--sees Nature as a rough nightmare, a kill or be killed arena. In Blake's drawing Nature is far bigger than any human, and the flower appears about to swallow them, poor things. And they deserve what they get. Or do they? Did Blake see innocence as a poor defensive position, made to bolster attention, regardless of result? Or was he just describing innocence in its most pure form, a little baby who had no words, trying to figure out the planet on his own?

Next week, it's back to Anne Sexton, with Karen's so kind invitation to join her poetry group for a discuss of You, Doctor Martin, et al.

Flourish! and Grow!

The new motto of Three Rooms Press: Flourish! and Grow!

It's the "Follow your bliss" of the late-00's. The DIY! The New Frontier! and it's happening here, right before your very eyes. In the next few months, you'll see a new Three Rooms Press with bigger, brighter graphics, more intimate personal details and the occasional baby picture, showing real-life babies being shamelessly exploited by their parents by having their pictures shown on royalty-free Stock Photo websites!

More posts! More comments! Flourish! and Grow!

Get with it!

Wednesday, January 10, 2007

And what about that smell on Monday?

Poetry affects almost all the senses: you can touch it in book form, you can see it, you can hear it, and, with the right descriptions (or the right good-looking reader), the saliva glands are affected so much so that you can taste it.

But can you smell it? In modern poetry--rarely.

While some poets excel at writing descriptions that ignite the sense of smell, it is difficult. Smell is our most coveted personal asset; we want to think of it as part of what makes us unique. Anyone can admire a beautiful woman's eyes, but we rarely share in a group admiration of the same smell, especially if it is not related to food.

During the printing of Karen Hildebrand's amazing book "One Foot Out the Door," the author and her Three Rooms Press agent did share a smell experience. After a press check in midtown, we walked outside and smelled a sweet, vanilla-like odor whose source we couldn't place. Back in Greenwich Village a few minutes later, we caught the same scent again. Next day's paper said that we weren't alone. Thousands of New Yorkers had been collectively smelling this rather pleasant scent and no one could explain where it came from. Certainly, not one single person proposed that the scent came from New Jersey.

Monday morning in Three Rooms Press' Greenwich Village headquarters, staffers were overwhelmed by a scent that smelled like someone turned on a gas oven but forgot to light the pilot. As visions of Sylvia Plath danced in our heads, we staggered outside, only to find the smell permeating the street as well. We drifted a few blocks, where the smell was less, to the embracing arms (and scents) of The Pink Tea Cup on Grove Street. There, the smell transmuted to a blend of bacon, coffee and hot biscuits. After breakfast, we came back to a much dissipated gas odor, and breaking news commentary about how thousands were affected by this smell from midtown to the Village. More than one expert declared that the source of the odor was ABSOLUTELY New Jersey.

Poor New Jersey. And poor news reporters. Like poetry, television and newspapers have a difficult time displaying anything that accurately describes thousands of people being affected by smell. All the photos in the world can't do it. It requires either direct contact with the smell or very difficult word usage which modern poetry can inspire.

From now on--more poems involving smell!

Tuesday, January 9, 2007

New way of listening to you

Myspace is great except for the incredibly ugly graphics, the barrage of advertising and the limited layout ability. So here's another way to hear Three Rooms Press audio, which esthetes may prefer. God knows I'm probably the only one who actually goes to these websites anyway, but nevertheless, given the opportunity to present creative work to the world, it is important to take advantage of it. So... drumroll... presenting Three Rooms Press audio.


Three Rooms Press record continues to grow with the new addition of Abigail, a musical poem written, composed and produced by Kathi Georges. The poem relates the feelings of a young women on the sixth anniversary of her father's death. Culture credo tends to make big deals of the fifth and tenth anniversaries of momentous events, leaving us alone to reflect during the years in between. Inspired by Patti Smith's album Horses, the subject of this piece is able to find a voice to remember what society and the need to survive requires us to pretend to forget.