Skip to main content

Paul Blackburn

Someday I'll get to a book about poet and translator Paul Blackburn (edit in: I've heard rumors, as of  August 2018, that an edition of letters in in the works, but just rumors. I've also found out that a new edition of the Journals and a Paul Blackburn Reader are in imminent.), hopefully a collected or selected letters, since the main work (his Collected) is done. Until then, here are a list of links that may prove interesting if you're interested in him. It took me only the better part of a day to cover 75 or so Google results (what can I say?; I was bored) if you want to double-check me. It just seems to me that someone else long before me should have shown some interest, but if it's just me, well, it'll have to be me. I can take the heat of the kitchen.


http://jacketmagazine.com/12/blac-stat.html
This 1954 piece was published in the book
The Parallel Voyages
, Sun-Gemini Press,1987.

Register of Paul Blackburn papers at UCSD

Preface for Paul Blackburn by Jerome Rothenberg

Modern American Poetry

Electronic Poetry Center

Jacket Paul Blackburn issue

Ted Burke—Paul Blackburn and the Hard Gaze

Blackburn papers at Washington University

Basil King on Blackburn

Bob Holman on Blackburn

Paul Blackburn: Notes from a Lecture (Jim Cohn)

House Taken Over (Casa 
Tomada) by
Julio 
Cortázar  (Translated by
 Paul
Blackburn)

Blackburn poems in Poetry

The Journals: a paper on Paul Blackburn by Burt Kimmelman

article discussing Blackburn poems from New American Poetry 1945-60, ed. Allen

Clayton Eshleman on Paul Blackburn

Clayton Eshleman on PB II

Bard College Archives with a two-hour reading by Blackburn

Jim Cohn on Paul Blackburn (video in Real format)

Joe Hall on the Journals

Kirby Olson on Blackburn

https://soundcloud.com/poetry-project-audio/inonor-about-the-premises-a-reading-celebration-of-paul-blackburn-september-28th-2016
In On or About the Premises: a Reading and Celebration of Paul Blackburn

Popular posts from this blog

Ed Dorn's # 22 From Twenty-four Love Poems

                                               from Jacket The strengthy message here in #22 of 24 Love Songs can be summed up in two lines: ['There is/no sense to beauty. . .' and '. . .How/ the world is shit/ and I mean all of it] What I also like about this brief poem is the interplay between the title of the book and the subject of the poems (love/anti-love (which is not hate)): it's all a mass of contradictions, like love. And I have to say that the shorter poems of the Love Songs and the last book he wrote before dying (Chemo Sábe) seem to me much better and more memorable than the Slinger/Gunslinger poems. These (generally) later poems probably attempt less stylistically, but are more sure-handed, hacked from a soap bar, maybe. Easy to use, but disappear after use. In any case, Dorn is well worth the reading and re-reading, for me, though he'll never become one of my favorites. And doesn't every poet want that, dead or alive? ;-) #22 The agony

Mike James

 The River’s Architecture for Louis McKee, d. 11/21/11 The river has a shape you follow with your whole body: shoulder, footstep, and ear- those who know how to listen hear how river wind is like breath, alive in lung and line. Mike James makes his home in Murfreesboro, Tennessee. He has published in hundreds of magazines, large and small, and has performed his poetry at universities and other venues throughout the country. He has published over 20 collections and has served as visiting writer at the University of Maine, Fort Kent. His recent new and selected poems, Portable Light: Poems 1991-2021, was nominated for the National Book Critics Circle Award. His last collection, Back Alley Saints at the Tiki Bar, was published in April by Redhawk. He currently serves as the Poet Laureate of Murfreesboro, TN.

Jim Daniels

Half Days My daughter, thirteen, pale shred of herself, fought an unidentified infection in her spine as it softened her discs into disappearance. I’d unread that story if she were young and still listened to lullabies. After she got discharged, I set an alarm for two a.m. each night to shoot antibiotics into her port while she slept, her limp arm resting in my hand. Her return to school: half days—follow my dotted line smearing across months of sleepless breadcrumbs— at noon I idled high, anxious in the school driveway rattling off the latest test results in the zero gravity of fear. She startled me with the brittle thunk of the car door slam, then snapped at me for staring at her friends as they strolled across the street to the cafeteria, creeping them out, she said, embarrassed by illness like hard acne or a blooming hickey, wrong music or flakey hair, or the tacky middle-school jumper she no longer had to wear. I was there to drive her to