The Missing Links
The Sound of the Suburbs: from poetry to pop. (Motion on Larkin: “It was a place without bullshit — that’s what he liked about it. That was his version of the suburban sublime: a bullshit-free zone.”) * Nightjar Press. * Dan Rhodes talks about his new book (podcast). * David Byrne at the BBC (video). […]
Maintenant #8 – EirÃkur Örn Norðdahl
I was always very stressed about reading and would always read too fast — people would tell me: EirÃkur, you need to read slower. But at these Nýhil parties, with all the drinking and nonsense that came with them, I started reading even faster and using the rhythm as a tool — as well as the audience as a manouvering space for transgression, for stopping-dead. I found that I could channel my stress into the reading by just reading the way I felt like reading, and instead of holding back I’d rush forward… Most poets feel that they need to take care and rework their poems, over and over again, but wouldn’t give five minutes of practice for a performance. They relegate the actual sound of the poems to a theoretical dimension and ignore the practical application of those sounds. I’m a religiously nervous person and I can’t propose a toast without knowing exactly, word for word, what I’m going to say and how I’m going to say it — and this performance neurosis has made it very natural for me to practice. I need to be absolutely sure of what I’m going to do, otherwise it’ll all go to hell.
In the eighth of his Maintenant series, SJ Fowler interviews the Icelandic poet EirÃkur Örn Norðdahl.
Fist or words bereft of sense (excerpts)
Won’t work, walkways and weepslayers, writhing undug tunnels through mountainous Westfjords, money-fields belong to none for long, cry not thy hole-fillings wretched bastard
Here all fly, cannot fly, couldn’t though I wished I couldn’t, and wouldn’t watch out that maybe I wish I could, those there wings are just ornaments
Idler cars and bang and pipes and drive a little harder while the dirt-marks disappear into the myth while best yes best would be while all the way while yawn to walk
The bridge-building pays for itself, is paid for by others, we pay it all, who does not pay, noone pays, down payment prepayment, woe to you oh fallen city, we shall not pay!
By EirÃkur Örn Norðdahl.
3:AM Reloaded
What you (may have) missed on 3:AM recently: Fiction: ‘Every Sinne Is’ by Tim Scott Poetry: In the seventh of his Maintenant series SJ Fowler interviews Jan Wagner, arguably the German poet of his generation; ‘Two Poems’ by Jan Wagner Reviewed: Christopher Madden on Judith Butler’s Frames of War: When is Life Grievable?, Max Dunbar […]