Tag Archives: Bill Knott

10 Articles for Improving Your Mental Hygiene (Vol. 2.0)

Here are ten articles that I want to share with you. These articles deal with the following themes among other things: work, play, society, living, writing, poetry, language, effort, dance, spirituality, imagination, mindfulness, education and learning.

I hope that you will find something of value.

1. Alan Watts: Work as Play
2. Georg Simmel: The Stranger
3. Bill Knott: Path out of View
4. Neojaponisme: Missives on Outlander Japanese
5. Elbert Hubbard: A Message to Garcia
6. Kenneth Goldsmith (editor): Publishing the Unpublishable
7. Rudolf Steiner: On Eurythmy
8. Simone Weil: 5 Flashes of Weil
9. Thich Nhat Hanh: Mindfulness of Ourselves, Mindfulness of Others
10. Ivan Illich: Deschooling Society

Here is the first in this series: 10 Articles for Improving Your Mental Hygiene (Vol 1.0)

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Quattro Poesie di Mattina

the morning creeps aching in your foot
to the beginning of another situation,
a new task, a set of masks to don.
I awoke feverish in the after-glow of night
visions and now staring down an imagined
trajectory of this day’s unfolding chaos.

Brought close, brought too close – you always
sleep when I awake, but not today, today in this
once-occurring time-bloom. Oh, to a new day as
the train’s distorted hum signals movement, the perverse
movement of passengers of whom you do not know, maybe.

In this autumnal cool stillness, even the birds cry such that
you could extract truth from their screeching howls – from
the deafening mechanical purr of an automobile as it passes
too close, obscenely close.

Move, walk, put your limping foot forward, ahead of you and
forge something grand out of this renewal of sameness, this renewal
of ever-changing semi-sameness.

Bill Knott: 2 Poems

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The following are two poems by Bill Knott. To read more of his work, please visit: Not Poetry Blog

THE POEM IS ALIVE

The critic’s hand cured by atrocity
Sharpens the next dictator’s homily

Gripping cash beneath arctic lamps
The uncompiled umpires run through fields

The pheromones have gone home
To a cathedral catheterized by eels

Above the wheat’s bending amen-figures
Night convinces the day to wait for us

Upstairs with all the rest of the frauds
I remain with my finest demonstratives

Of course the poem is alive to its limits
To the length that composition permits

CEMETERY

Who whispers here is forgotten.

Saliva’s emptiest fruit
adorns the stones,
words ripening your mouth
to a spoilation
of silence.

Who speaks here
reads a text that downloads
the screen of his fingernail,
through which nothing’s visible
as glass is.

For the memorial
we must kneel
to pick each flower
from amongst its modifiers:
but to do that
one needs a hand bared
of all uses, of all trades:
as ours is not.