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#Amy Clampitt
medusaslament · 4 months ago
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Amy Clampitt (Poetry, March 1985)
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literaturha · 6 months ago
The process goes on forever: they came from sand, they go back to gravel, along with the treasuries of Murano, the buttressed astonishments of Chartres, which even now are readying for being turned over and over as gravely and gradually as an intellect engaged in the hazardous redefinition of structures no one has yet looked at.
Amy Clampitt, Beach Glass
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violettesiren · 8 months ago
Stealth of the flood tide, the moon dark but still at work, the herring shoals somewhere offshore, looked for but not infallible, as the tide is, as the August darks are—
stealth of the seep of daylight, the boats bird-white above the inlet’s altering fish-silver, the murmur of the motor as the first boat slips out ahead of daylight
into the opening aorta, that heaving reckoning whose flux informs the heartbeat of the fisherman—poor, dark, fallible-infallible handful of a marvel
murmuring unasked inside the ribcage, workplace covert as the August darks are, as is the moon’s work, masked within the blazing atrium of daylight, the margin of its dwindling
sanguine as with labor, but effortless: as is the image, far out, illusory at the dark’s edge, of the cruise ship moving, seemingly unscathed by effort, bright as a stage set
for the miming of the tiara’d swan’s danced dying, the heartbeat’s prodigies of strain unseen, the tendons’ ache, the bloodstained toe shoes, the tulle sweat- stained, contained
out where the herring wait, beyond the surf-roar on the other side of silence we should die of (George Eliot declared) were we to hear it. Many have already died of it.
The August Darks by Amy Clampitt
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davidhudson · 10 months ago
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Amy Clampitt, June 15, 1920 – September 10, 1994.
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gregorygalloway · 10 months ago
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Amy Clampitt (born New Providence, IA, 15 June 1920 – 10 September 1994)   
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contremineur · a year ago
[...]moving lights along Route 80, at nightfall, in falling snow, the stillness and the sorrow of things moving back to where they came from.
Amy Clampitt, final lines from A procession at Candlemass
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hyejungkook · 18 days ago
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Poem 43 - Linked Verses - Restringing the Mala - “Syrinx” by Amy Clampitt (and bonus “The Cormorant in Its Element”) from the Norton Anthology of Poetry, 5th Edition (W. W. Norton, 2005)
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mvaljean525 · 2 months ago
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Frame within frame, the evolving conversation   is dancelike, as though two could play   at improvising snowflakes’ six-feather-vaned evanescence, no two ever alike. All process and no arrival: the happier we are, the less there is for memory to take hold of,   or—memory being so largely a predilection   for the exceptional—come to a halt   in front of. But finding, one evening   on a street not quite familiar, inside a gated November-sodden garden, a building   of uncertain provenance, peering into whose vestibule we were   arrested—a frame within a frame,   a lozenge of impeccable clarity— by the reflection, no, not of our two selves, but of dancers exercising in a mirror, at the center of that clarity, what we saw was not stillness but movement: the perfection of memory consisting, it would seem,   in the never-to-be-completed. We saw them mirroring themselves,   never guessing the vestibule that defined them, frame within frame,   contained two other mirrors.
Dancers Exercising
Amy Clampitt  1920–1994
Graphic - Will Caldwell
WDC World Professional Latin 2019 I Cha Cha I Bom Bom - Sam and The Womp
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nomanwalksalone · 3 months ago
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by Alexander Freeling
Cold, like happy, is a relative term. Tell anyone from New York or Moscow that it was cold in Britain this year and you might get a pitying chuckle. But in a land without snow tyres or decent central heating, it was. At least, this is how I choose to explain my recent fascination with seriously heavy fabrics.
When the fog freezes at sunrise and sticks around all day, a 14 oz cotton is endlessly satisfying. Never mind that it’s is more commonly employed in tote bags than trousers. A good tailored trouser excels in the heavyweight range. It’s not just the extra warmth, though that’s certainly nice. They drape better. They last. And on a hanger, the sheer weight of each half of the trouser unfurls the creases from the other, so that by the next morning they scoff at ironing.
Wools also desire weights comparable to the sheep they came from. One of my earliest mistakes in the bespoke game was ordering a pair of trousers from a certain well-known Italian mill (also known to make some delightfully pricey casualwear) in 6 oz tweed. The finish was impeccable—richly textured yet refined—and of course, with the brisk walking habits of yours truly, the seat and thighs dissolved in a matter of months. We should celebrate our losses, but learn from them. Next time, I’m doubling the weight.
Beyond cloth, I’ve been looking at woven wool’s noble ancestor, the sheepskin. An indulgent form of home insulation, certainly, though an indulgence balanced in part by the fact that in these more civilized times, unindulged sheepskins are treated as one more waste product by the meat industry. Asides from that, I’ve been wondering the same thing about towelling, bathrobes, and bed linen: wouldn’t they be a bit better if they were heavier?
It’s not just practicalities that appeal to me. Beyond the warmth, the toughness, and the longevity, I feel an appreciation close to reverence. In Gravity and Grace, Simone Weil continually links our weightiness as humans to those aspects of our lives and deeds that drag us down. Our weaknesses and mistakes weigh on us. Our bodies themselves, she suggests, create a kind of drag on our souls. Weight, for Weil, is the sum of all these fears. To me it’s less about people falling down, more about making them secure. I wonder how much of Weil’s connection is cultural: it’s one thing getting plump on earthly pleasures in Paris or Nice, it’s another thing layering up in Yorkshire.
The cultural explanation seems necessary because there’s something resolutely British about heavy cloths: cords, flannels, thornproof tweeds. I think of Marling and Evans, Dugdale Brothers, Huddersfield Fine Worsteds, and cotton specialist Brisbane Moss. (If the last sounds suspiciously antipodean to you, don’t worry: it began life as The English Velvet Cord Dyeing Company.)
Amy Clampitt, an American visitor, perfectly captures the dingy British cold. In the ’70s, she wrote of “damp sheets in Dorset, fog-hung / habitat of bronchitis, of long / hot soaks in the bathtub, of nothing / quite drying out till next summer.” There’s a bit less bronchitis, but much of this seems familiar half a century on. Hardly arctic conditions, but you certainly appreciate a good heavy sweater.
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superkarina123 · 5 months ago
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flfnd · 8 months ago
8. September. Auf Twitter fragt Berit Glanz nach Texten, die einen trösten und ich sage »Witness« von Amy Clampitt. Als ich nachgucke, sehe ich, dass in allen Kopien des Gedichts, die irgendwo im Netz stehen, die letzte Zeile falsch ist. Ein ganzes Wort fehlt, was den Rhythmus vernichtet und den Inhalt plärren lässt. Ich schreibe zweien der Blogger, aber ich glaube kaum, dass sie's verbessern. In einem der Blogs ist ein Foto einer Printversion des Gedichts, da steht das fehlende Wort. In meiner Kindle-Version ist es auch da. Mir kommt das wie der Zustand der neuen Öffentlichkeit vor. Wie soll man das je so präzise machen wie vorher.
An ordinary evening in Wisconsin seen from a Greyhound bus—mute aisles of merchandise the sole inhabitants of the half-darkened Five and Ten,
the tables of the single lit café awash with unarticulated pathos, the surface membrane of the inadvertently transparent instant when no one is looking: outside town
the barns, their red gone dark with sundown, withhold the shudder of a warped terrain— the castle rocks above, tree-clogged ravines already submarine with nightfall, flocks
(like dark sheep) of toehold junipers, the lucent arms of birches : purity without a mirror, other than a mind bound elsewhere, to tell it how it looks.
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revolutionoftenderness · 10 months ago
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Daily the cortege of crumpled
defunct cars
goes by by the lasagna-
layered flatbed
truckload: hardtop
reverting to tar smudge,
wax shine antiqued to crusted
winepress smear,
windshield battered to
intact ice-tint, a rarity
fresh from the Pleistocene.
I like it; privately
I find esthetic
satisfaction in these
ceremonial removals
from the category of
received ideas
to regions where pigeons'
svelte smoke-velvet
limousines, taxiing
in whirligigs, reclaim
a parking lot,
and the bag-laden
hermit woman, disencumbered
of a greater incubus,
the crush of unexamined
attitudes, stoutly
follows her routine,
mining the mountainsides
of our daily refuse
for artifacts: subversive
with each arcane
trash-basket dig
the pleasures of the ruined.
[Dream — Vigen Vartanov 1990]
#vigenvartenov #amyclampitt #poetry #happybirthday
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archangellia · 11 months ago
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The violets and roses that still bloomed made her bedroom sweet all through November. — Amy Clampitt, from The Collected Poems of Amy Clampitt; “Margaret Fuller, 1847,”
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virallyfe · a year ago
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Amy Clampitt – Women who are inclined to…
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