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MEWL HOUSE
M E W L H O U S E is a handmade, limited edition, collection of poems. The book employs Asian techniques in the shaping of this hand-sewn artifact. The cover is made of fine artisan Canal Paper of MONTRÉAL. The text is laser printed on 24 lb. linen paper made of 25% cotton. Each copy is signed by the author on the copyright page, and is numbered in the order in which the book was made. The book measures 7 ¼" x 9". There are 55 pages total, and includes 48 poems.
55 pages, Rag Book
First published January 1, 2005
7 people want to read
About the author
M. Sarki
20 books240 followersFor the last several years M Sarki has maintained a literary blog called The Rogue Literary Society. Sarki can now be found more liberally on Substack https://substack.com/@msarki where he publishes his critical views on subjects and books read, photographs and nude art collaborations with his wife, as well as periodical attempts at creating poetic artifacts. Since 2000 Sarki has produced four collections of poetry and four books of prose.
M Sarki has also written, directed, and produced four short art films titled Gnoman's Bois de Rose, Biscuits and Striola, The Tools of Migrant Hunters, My Father's Kitchen, and he is the author of the feature film screenplay, Alphonso Bow.
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m sarki
mewlhouse@gmail.com
M Sarki has also written, directed, and produced four short art films titled Gnoman's Bois de Rose, Biscuits and Striola, The Tools of Migrant Hunters, My Father's Kitchen, and he is the author of the feature film screenplay, Alphonso Bow.
--
m sarki
mewlhouse@gmail.com
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Displaying 1 - 2 of 2 reviews
December 7, 2016
How to Write a Poem
I am beginning work on this article at 1:30 AM of a particular Saturday morning two weeks before Thanksgiving 2009. There is no heat on in my apartment. Something wrong with some pipe they say. I cannot sleep. Earlier my wife seemed far away to the edge of our bed where the actual distance between us was too great to cuddle without disturbing her. I feel she did not want me to anyway. I had already knocked my reading glasses off the nightstand along with two books, both critical works on Samuel Beckett. Three cups of espresso later I have checked my blog, my email, read a few posts that caught my attention, put the computer away and grabbed my Padgett Powell Edisto Revisited, read a little of that, went back to my large collection of Eugenio Montale poems I am reading for the umpteenth time, thought about Jonathan Galassi for a bit, my own personal poetry, my editor Gordon Lish, my own history of writing poems, how hard it will be to find a job a year from now at fifty-six years old, and finally, love.
Eugenio Montale knew how to write a poem. Jonathan Galassi knows how to translate these poems into English. Jonathan Galassi, at this writing, cannot write a decent poem of his own if his life depended on it, but he is brilliant in his translation of Eugenio Montale. That the same Galassi could do such a brilliant job translating Montale and not be able to transfer what he learns into his own work is I think profound. And I am not saying Galassi actually interpreted Montale the way Montale would have wanted his poetry translated. But I like it.
After all my thinking this early morning (actually all through the night), and the enjoyment I derived from letting my mind drift through every thought, I am finally left with not much of anything I really want to say. It is interesting in the sense that just a few moments ago I felt I had so much to say. That is how it is with me. It is quite hard to focus. Or to be ambitious for long stretches of time. That is how I eventually came to write poems, especially short poems, as I had less to focus on and a better chance of getting to some ending.
Many times the composition of a poem begins with one specific word that is in my mind, a word that emotes something in me. Could be a pretty word, one that looks good on the page. Or maybe an awful word, a dangerous word, or perhaps a sexy-looking word that gets my attention. But nonetheless, if I have a word, I can usually get a poem out of it. But it isn't that easy getting a word. And it gets harder as the years go by. Sometimes all I need is a strong feeling about something, a little walk to get my rhythm, and I am off and into composition. Lucky me. From there it has to flow, and it does flow, literally, if I let it. There are instances when I simply write out verbatim what I am thinking and figure out what the poem is behind this literal interpretation. Or, in my case, what is making its demand on my heart. Later I revise. And revise. And revise. And still I revise.
I find many words a bore. Seems to me there are plenty of strong ones that nobody is looking for. Words that make you feel something. There are plenty of words that may not mean what they feel. But I choose words based on what they feel and look like they feel. I figure they shouldn't have been made up in the first place if they don't do what they should have been intended to do. So, rule one is do not use words in the final composition that don't feel or look right. They must also be strong. Rule number two is they really need to have relations with each other. A little incest is good for a poem. A lot is even better. There are many segments of a word such as morphemes, phonemes, trills, glottals, open vowels, and syllables. They need to all be intimately related to all the other segments of the other words and used mathematically. The more intimate they all are the stronger the poem. But placement is everything. The right word in the right place.
But if you don't have an idea of your own none of this matters. If you're not willing to put yourself in jeopardy who would care? If you do not desire to make history you are wasting the reader's time, not to mention your own. What you bring to the page must be your own. You must possess your self. That is not an easy thing to do. Sometimes it takes many years to learn what that even means. Writing poetry is not a recreational sport for me. It is hard work. Frustration. Pain. And sometimes, deliverance. But it only lasts a few short moments, this deliverance, and one must then get on to the next pressing thing.
Desire plays a primary role in most all of my poems. If desire wasn't made manifest in all its forms I am certain there would be little to no production on my part. Some would say my poems, for the most part, are erotic. Possibly. But I do visit death often enough to be labeled dark and disconcerting. As in fiction the poet may commit any act, even the attempt and commission of murder on the page. Fantastic is the life of a poet. Unfortunately the pay is poor and there is no reward, but for that one moment, when you finally get it right, and then poetry is worth all the suffering. And when you have finally cornered and contained a serious reader deep in the well and midst of your poems, and that reader appreciates them for what these artifacts are, then that is also quite a lovely feeling. But it is historical relevance the serious poet is after as he or she stands on the shoulders of The Mighty Dead and carries on.
I am beginning work on this article at 1:30 AM of a particular Saturday morning two weeks before Thanksgiving 2009. There is no heat on in my apartment. Something wrong with some pipe they say. I cannot sleep. Earlier my wife seemed far away to the edge of our bed where the actual distance between us was too great to cuddle without disturbing her. I feel she did not want me to anyway. I had already knocked my reading glasses off the nightstand along with two books, both critical works on Samuel Beckett. Three cups of espresso later I have checked my blog, my email, read a few posts that caught my attention, put the computer away and grabbed my Padgett Powell Edisto Revisited, read a little of that, went back to my large collection of Eugenio Montale poems I am reading for the umpteenth time, thought about Jonathan Galassi for a bit, my own personal poetry, my editor Gordon Lish, my own history of writing poems, how hard it will be to find a job a year from now at fifty-six years old, and finally, love.
Eugenio Montale knew how to write a poem. Jonathan Galassi knows how to translate these poems into English. Jonathan Galassi, at this writing, cannot write a decent poem of his own if his life depended on it, but he is brilliant in his translation of Eugenio Montale. That the same Galassi could do such a brilliant job translating Montale and not be able to transfer what he learns into his own work is I think profound. And I am not saying Galassi actually interpreted Montale the way Montale would have wanted his poetry translated. But I like it.
After all my thinking this early morning (actually all through the night), and the enjoyment I derived from letting my mind drift through every thought, I am finally left with not much of anything I really want to say. It is interesting in the sense that just a few moments ago I felt I had so much to say. That is how it is with me. It is quite hard to focus. Or to be ambitious for long stretches of time. That is how I eventually came to write poems, especially short poems, as I had less to focus on and a better chance of getting to some ending.
Many times the composition of a poem begins with one specific word that is in my mind, a word that emotes something in me. Could be a pretty word, one that looks good on the page. Or maybe an awful word, a dangerous word, or perhaps a sexy-looking word that gets my attention. But nonetheless, if I have a word, I can usually get a poem out of it. But it isn't that easy getting a word. And it gets harder as the years go by. Sometimes all I need is a strong feeling about something, a little walk to get my rhythm, and I am off and into composition. Lucky me. From there it has to flow, and it does flow, literally, if I let it. There are instances when I simply write out verbatim what I am thinking and figure out what the poem is behind this literal interpretation. Or, in my case, what is making its demand on my heart. Later I revise. And revise. And revise. And still I revise.
I find many words a bore. Seems to me there are plenty of strong ones that nobody is looking for. Words that make you feel something. There are plenty of words that may not mean what they feel. But I choose words based on what they feel and look like they feel. I figure they shouldn't have been made up in the first place if they don't do what they should have been intended to do. So, rule one is do not use words in the final composition that don't feel or look right. They must also be strong. Rule number two is they really need to have relations with each other. A little incest is good for a poem. A lot is even better. There are many segments of a word such as morphemes, phonemes, trills, glottals, open vowels, and syllables. They need to all be intimately related to all the other segments of the other words and used mathematically. The more intimate they all are the stronger the poem. But placement is everything. The right word in the right place.
But if you don't have an idea of your own none of this matters. If you're not willing to put yourself in jeopardy who would care? If you do not desire to make history you are wasting the reader's time, not to mention your own. What you bring to the page must be your own. You must possess your self. That is not an easy thing to do. Sometimes it takes many years to learn what that even means. Writing poetry is not a recreational sport for me. It is hard work. Frustration. Pain. And sometimes, deliverance. But it only lasts a few short moments, this deliverance, and one must then get on to the next pressing thing.
Desire plays a primary role in most all of my poems. If desire wasn't made manifest in all its forms I am certain there would be little to no production on my part. Some would say my poems, for the most part, are erotic. Possibly. But I do visit death often enough to be labeled dark and disconcerting. As in fiction the poet may commit any act, even the attempt and commission of murder on the page. Fantastic is the life of a poet. Unfortunately the pay is poor and there is no reward, but for that one moment, when you finally get it right, and then poetry is worth all the suffering. And when you have finally cornered and contained a serious reader deep in the well and midst of your poems, and that reader appreciates them for what these artifacts are, then that is also quite a lovely feeling. But it is historical relevance the serious poet is after as he or she stands on the shoulders of The Mighty Dead and carries on.
December 3, 2015
The title of this book was taken from one of the poems included in the collection, Mewl House in September, a poem written in remembrance of the awful tragedy on 9/11. There is a rather raw youtube video of me reading this poem. It can be viewed and listened to here: https://youtu.be/BQsm1yy1EZI
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