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#Clampitt
medusaslament · 4 months ago
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Amy Clampitt (Poetry, March 1985)
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literaturha · 6 months ago
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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
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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
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[...]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 · 19 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.
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Dancers Exercising
Amy Clampitt  1920–1994
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Graphic - Will Caldwell
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Video:
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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HEAVYWEIGHTS
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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lokiiago-eddie · 7 months ago
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John Edward Robinson (born December 27, 1943) is an American serial killer who was convicted in 2003 of the murders of three women during a fifteen-year period. He subsequently admitted responsibility for five additional murders during that time. 
In 1984, Robinson hired Paula Godfrey, 19, ostensibly to work as a sales representative. Godfrey told friends and family that Robinson was sending her away for training. After hearing nothing further from her, Godfrey's parents filed a missing persons report. No trace of Paula Godfrey has ever been found.
In 1985 Robinson, met Lisa Stasi and her 4-month-old daughter, Tiffany, at a battered women’s shelter in Kansas City. He promised her a job in Chicago, an apartment, and daycare for her baby, and asked her to sign several sheets of blank stationery. A few days later, Robinson contacted his brother and sister-in-law, who had been unable to adopt a baby through traditional channels, and informed them that he knew of a baby whose mother had committed suicide. For a $5,500 fee to an imaginary lawyer, Don and Helen Robinson received Tiffany Stasi (whose identity was confirmed by DNA testing in 2000) and a set of authentic-appearing adoption papers with the forged signatures of two lawyers and a judge. Lisa Stasi was never heard from again.
In 1987 Catherine Clampitt, 27, was hired by Robinson, who reportedly promised her extensive traveling and a new wardrobe. She vanished in June of that year. Her missing persons case remains open.
From 1987-1993 Robinson was incarcerated, first in Kansas (1987-91) on multiple fraud convictions, and thereafter in Missouri for another fraud conviction and parole violations. At Western Missouri Correctional Facility he met and ingratiated himself with 49-year-old Beverly Bonner, the prison librarian, who upon his release left her husband and moved to Kansas to work for him. After Robinson arranged for Bonner's alimony checks to be forwarded to a Kansas post office box, her family never heard from her again. For several years Bonner's mother continued forwarding her checks, and Robinson continued cashing them.
By now Robinson had discovered the Internet, and roamed various social networking sites using the name "Slavemaster", looking for women who enjoyed playing the submissive partner role during sex. The first victim he met online was Sheila Faith, 45, whose 15-year-old daughter Debbie was confined to a wheelchair due to spina bifida. He portrayed himself as a wealthy man who would support them, pay for Debbie's therapy, and give Sheila a job. In 1994 they moved from Fullerton, California to Kansas City and immediately disappeared. Robinson cashed Faith's pension checks for the next seven years.
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