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Adrienne Rich

April 22, 2010

I am putting together a short talk for my show in a few weeks. Came across this excerpt from an Adrienne Rich poem (, while looking at ‘pyrotechnic’ poets. I think it might explain why I have decided to dwell in writing prose for a while. Perhaps I am running out of patience!


This horrible patience which is part of the work
This patience which waits for language for meaning for the
least sign
This encumbered plodding state doggedly dragging
the IV up and down the corridor
with the plastic sack of bloodstained urine

Only so can you start living again
waking to take the temperature of the soul
when the black irises lean at dawn
from the mouth of the bedside pitcher
This condition in which you swear I will
submit to whatever poetry is
I accept no limits
Horrible patience

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