It is hard to think of another book like Un. Reading it is like bouncing on a moral, intellectual, and linguistic trampoline.This astonishing sequence begins with a countdown that takes us not to zero, but to un. Lee is surveying the catastrophic new reality we have made of our planet. But pushing way past the mimetic, he plunges into language itself with shovel and pick-aIt is hard to think of another book like Un. Reading it is like bouncing on a moral, intellectual, and linguistic trampoline.This astonishing sequence begins with a countdown that takes us not to zero, but to un. Lee is surveying the catastrophic new reality we have made of our planet. But pushing way past the mimetic, he plunges into language itself with shovel and pick-axe, digging up free-standing prefixes, syllables, roots, in a struggle to articulate what we can scarcely bear to think.This untology is at once a lament for our squandered earth, a wake-up call, a dramatic poetic departure, and a song of despair, streaked with craggy hope. Lee's exploration turns play into prayer -- perhaps the only kind of prayer the contemporary world permits....
|Number of Pages||:||80 Pages|
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In wreck, in dearth, in necksong,godnexus gone to fat of the land,into the wordy desyllabification of evil - smallcrawlspace for plegics, 4, 3, 2, 1, un.- inwreck, pg. 3* * *A little planet blues, for thedeathwatch.A season of rictus riffs.(When schist prevails, and squamouspinpricks of appetitevamp to a second future - who'll chant the mutant genesis? who celebratean aevum cleansed of us?)- blues, pg. 12* * *Tagalongsnatches, algorithmichums. You even wear genedisguises. Little anti-threnodic peeps, tell nix in the slurry:some-thing matters, nomatter how nano the known.- tagalong, pg. 24* * *As if astub, as if astutter, as if stigmata -ramshacklegenera, real onrecall. Sub-junctiveproof in the lent, kentfirmament -precious, heart-precious thearchaeological now.- now, pg. 35* * *In cess, in dis-ownmost, in ripture,in slow-mo history cease,in bio in haemo in necro - yet howdumbfound howdazzled, howmortally lucky to be.- history, pg. 42* * *Lost word in thegreen going down,husk of a logos,crybaby word, outdragging your passel of absence -little word lost, why in thedemeanigned world would Icradle your lonely?You, little murderer? You, little cannibal drag?!- word, pg. 53* * *Blindlight, blindnight, blind blinkers.Blind of the lakelorn /oflumpen /the scree.In terminal ought and deny, indelible isprints.Palping the scandalscript. Sniffing thepetrified fiat. - blind, pg. 61
So, from reading through these poems, this book seems to be talking about the thought processes (of Western thought, colonial thought even) that stop us from moving forward. "Terminal Creeds" I've heard it called (for a more jargony term). It can be thought of as the impasse which Western thought has led us to (in our thinking, in our living...). Thought that doesn't necessarily reflect the reality of this planet (whatever that could mean). Therefore... we are f*cked. It's a pretty dark book, thematically. But there is also the form which is equally important. What is going on there...? There are many difficult words: it's like he's dredging up the dictionary. Or stirring up the pot of our language. And also creating some hybrid type words. So.. why do that? Using dead language for a dead culture? Possibly. Or perhaps just seeing what's there (in our language). Mixing up the pot in hope that something new is discovered. A way out of this impasse. These experiments yield some dead language, but perhaps a hope, too. Although this hope isn't expressed thematically in the poems. Find a new language to describe how things are. Save English from itself. Save us. But don't forget: sh*t is f*cked up!!!!