"AWP Poem"

Thanks to “Anonymous” who suggested this poem by Nin Andrews as another example of an “AWP poem.” I'd previously posted another "AWP poem," "At the Convention" by Cristin O’Keefe Aptowicz, here.

And speaking of AWP, what exactly are you already looking forward to? Any particular readings or panels? Off-sites?

I’ve got the Pedagogy Forum on one of the days, and I’ll be working the Grist table at the Bookfair. Otherwise, I’ve already got the Blackbird/Somebody (Diode? New South?) reading in my sights. There are a number of readers for this one, but two looking forward to T.R. Hummer and Rae Armantrout especially. I can’t remember where I heard about this reading (Twitter? Facebook? blog?), but I’ll post more info when I find it, unless anyone out there knows and can post in the comments.

Really I’m looking forward to catching up with good friends and new friends. Talking shop and arguing. Generally sharpening the iron. Some laughs.

Somebody recently described AWP as feeling more like a family reunion, and this year, yeah, feels like that. Thank god.

UPDATE: via Diode's Facebook page:
diode has its 7 readers for its joint AWP off-site reading with Blackbird:

Bob Hicok
TR Hummer
Rae Armantrout
Oliver de la Paz
Christine Klocek-Lim
GC Waldrep
Victoria Chang

Blackbird is working on their 7, and it promises to be a great line-up.

Thursday, Feb. 3, 8:00, The Avalon Theater.

_______

Poets on Poetry


—I'm pretending not to see him so I can eat my lunch.
—But who reads that shit? About as true to life as a velvet grape.
—I think he judges poetry with his dick. And poets, too.
—What's the scoop on her? Is that her husband, or is he just hanging out in her hotel room for the duration?
—Personally I prefer not to think about his dick.
—His latest work, especially the poems about his dead father, begin to sound human.
—Think of it as a conductor's baton.
—Granted, she wins all the prizes, but talk about grandiose.
—The latest inductee into the goddess cult. Like back in the sixties when sex and war were the metaphors for consciousness-raising.
—I bet they're really confessional, and she's a total pervert too.
—He knows how to network, who to climb, and when. Timing is everything.
—Insomnia, maybe chronic fatigue syndrome. I think it's just frayed nerves.
—I always admired your work but can't figure why it's been so marginalized.
—You want my phone number?
—The illusion of the narrative appears in your work, but there's really a thread of the unspoken narrative, right?
—Are you married? Do you have children?
—Never even answered my inquiries, the pompous bastard.
—That's really sweet. Thank you.
—I think I have a blindspot when it comes to his work.
—Must be great to get away.
—I don't know why they don't just fire the asshole.
—Reminds me of a gilt frame with no picture inside.
—She's eloquent enough, a nice cocktail poet.
—Did you see what he was wearing?
—She says it's none of my business what she writes.
—Poetry is a private affair. A kind of masturbation. An endless self-portrait.
—So what if he is another excellent specimen of the dead father poets.
—Where are the dead mother poets?
—I like the way you think.
—Yet another vapid, beautiful wind-blown babe-poet for the cover of APR.
—Let's go out for a beer somewhere.
—I sure wouldn't want to live in his skin.
—A local dive would be nice.
—The way I see it, you're better off not getting famous too soon.
—I never even send out my work.




Nin Andrews
from The Paris Review, Spring 2000