By Ron Silliman
Among the Age of Innocence and the Age of expertise comes The Age of Huts. This booklet brings jointly for the 1st time the entire poems in Ron Silliman's Age of Huts cycle, together with Ketjak, sundown particles, The chinese language laptop, and 2197, in addition to key satellite tv for pc texts, Sitting Up, status, Taking Steps, and BART. each one poem bargains a noticeably varied process towards utilizing language to discover the realm. one of many founding works of Language Poetry, The Age of Huts is ready every thing, kind of actually, as every one sentence, even every one word, embarks by itself narrative, linking jointly to shape a wide polyphonic research of up to date lifestyles. From Ketjak, one of many first poems to hire "the new sentence," to 2197, a serial paintings that scrambles the vocabulary and grammar of its sentences, The Age of Huts questions every little thing we've got recognized approximately poetry so that it will see the realm anew.
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Additional info for Age of Huts (Compleat) (New California Poetry Series, Volume 21)
A learned solitude, constantly in the head looking out. One’s age is seen best in the back of one’s hand. Sentiment is memory confused with desire. Fuchsias fall and stick to the walk. That he was not brutal enough for her confused him. Red shingle roof. Waiting for the phone to ring at the far end, I could hear voices, whole muted conversations. I’m unable to find just the right straw hat. Tuba booms. Primal soup. Forms from nouns are known. Pineapple slices. Agents, he noticed, once removed from their jobs, were the dullest ones of all.
Pineapple slices. Agents, he noticed, once removed from their jobs, were the dullest ones of all. Extra paper money was kept in the closet, rolled by my grandmother into the shade of the small window there, behind the coat hanger heavy with old ties. Said of her organization that it was the third largest tendency, but held to the correct line. He hit the bricks, took a vacation, got rolled up, popped, as they say. Luggage. Bulky tale, pointless as it is long. It is not as though our lives bear intended meaning, but that it gathers about us like fallen leaves that someone has failed to sweep away.
The flag. Log fort. Revolving door. Clear lake. Over farm fields in a glider. Finally, there was nothing to turn you aside, the crowd’s bustle as tho at your own momentum, the voices would ebb and echo, as you push at last thru lobby after lobby. Dry blood. Stretched canvas. Like a pitcher’s kick, t’ai chi. Each day’s particulars conjoined, a morning habit, raising the shade, say, as the coffee steeps. Chorus of the garbage collectors beneath the bedroom window, chewing cabbage discards, smashing bottles, the odor from the cud of their great truck.
Age of Huts (Compleat) (New California Poetry Series, Volume 21) by Ron Silliman