Another Smashed Pinecone

by Bernadette Mayer

Poetry. "It's OK that poetry won't save us from circumstance, or pave our road to what we're tempted to call Heaven, but it doesn't matter—because reading Bernadette Mayer's poetry is where I always want to be. Here, within the playfulness of her language, is where consequences of daily living are histories of heart and mind. Poetry is in life and life is in Bernadette's poetry, and that's all the reassurance we need"—Kristin Prevallet.

Genres: Poetry

83 pages, Paperback

First published January 1, 1998

About the author

Bernadette Mayer (born May 12, 1945) is an American poet, writer, and visual artist associated with both the Language poets and the New York School. Mayer's record-keeping and use of stream-of-consciousness narrative are two trademarks of her writing, though she is also known for her work with form and mythology. In addition to the influence of her textual-visual art and journal-keeping, Mayer's poetry is widely acknowledged as some of the first to speak accurately and honestly about the experience of motherhood. Mayer edited the journal 0 TO 9 with Vito Acconci, and, until 1983, United Artists books and magazines with Lewis Warsh. Mayer taught at the New School for Social Research, where she earned her degree in 1967, and, during the 1970s, she led a number of workshops at the Poetry Project at St. Mark's Church in New York. From 1980 to 1984, Mayer served as director of the Poetry Project, and her influence in the contemporary avant-garde is felt widely, with writers like Kathy Acker, Charles Bernstein, John Giorno, and Anne Waldman having sat in on her workshops.

(from Wikipedia)

Reviews

[Griffin Alexander · Rating 4 out of 5]

Grand as the love I once felt for you is the political
Notion of having a decent place to live with your kids
I don't mean without cockroaches, I'm no bourgeoisie
Worse than that, I want the place to be rent-free
& full of the romances of childhood so it has corners
Like in an essay, everyone's surprised to find

[Catherine Meng · Rating 4 out of 5]

if an aster falls over my page
it's only because I'm privileged
to have a bouquet
& when I walk in beauty
like the night I defy you
not to mourn
we can't even write
have no power
there's no fine America no more
nothing left but
a danger to everyone
worse than any empire
all greed
machines & bombs for everyone
destruction for all