Radio Transmissions /// Zachary Scott Hamilton
Radio Transmissions // 2 Zachary Scott Hamilton
Introduction ____________________ I get a lot of my formal poetic ideas from exploring the town. The town could be a place in my city; a little place tucked away in the corner, behind the center, or life styles of the people. A town could be my room. I prefer the sequence of clouds to the sequence of passenger cars, trains, cities, blood, and veins interests me little, but as I explore my own writing, it looks more that way, and I fight myself. I am writing of the city, the veins, the boats, the trains. It is emerging through my lines like a distortion, or radio interference. In “Transversal (2)”, a Russian satellite entertains a family, then insults and infiltrates the home. The people living in the home lose parts of their house to a kind of static interference, and they have to take drugs to ignore it. The two people in “Transversal” hire a team of scientists to test the radon in their ‘lives’ and at the same moment the world (our planet) has ended. I was interested in the violation of radio frequencies that are used in this world. The stress of CCTV, the strain of sound weapons police use in riot scenarios, “Transversal (2)” was a way for me to explore deeply rooted mutations that occur in a populace suffering from over-stimulation. From circuits to TV’s, Computers to satellites: radiation inundates us from birth until the moment of our death. “(i.)T.V. ho.ur” went into a different realm, using the sonnet as a subtle experiment to stylize a piece of my writing. I explored the radio waves concept in a structural, formal way, interested in the human spirit that which fights technology at every turn (Volta) the anti-spirit lodged in
Radio Transmissions // 3 Zachary Scott Hamilton Television or radio. I was surprised at how long it took me to write this first sonnet, the form killed my idea. I wanted to say little things pertaining to the human spirit, not so much of the radio waves. It was nice to write my first sonnet, it felt right, but the poem reads in a disjointed sort of antifascism style you might see in a socialist manifesto from an ignorant perspective. Avar Raskin and Cur.tain were made in a similar style. Both poems were drafted several times and sent through workshops. Cur.tain came out wonderfully, in the style it has been rendered (pertaining to the group who helped draft it.) Avar Raskin was tricky because its subtle shift from one voice into another makes it seem like three or four separate poems. The two poems “White turkey feathers” and “Editor” were strained to experiment more with language, as a picture painting device, rather than leaning on the burning walls of form or structure. Both of these poems were written using a collage method I learned about last term while discussing poet John Ashbury. The method I use consists of three sources found text that I mix and match according to feeling, motion and continuity. After gathering my found text, I add things in originating from the found words. The words form pictures in my head, and from there I see new pictures and write that down. It has come to my attention that my voice (in poetry) has a long history of abstract expressionists leading to it. I have always thought my voice was abrupt and pushy, a sort of anti-everything that comes out in blunt shouts, low growls, and snarls. It is my dedication to the smoky growl of cerebral contexts that shout from the gutter of an obscure mix of science and aggression that I am most interested in. I have always wanted to break rules before I have learned them, and it was reflected in my earlier poems. Now, I am interested in learning rules so I can break the rules. I feel enlightened by my surroundings and want to express it in my poems. The world around me is a never-ending source of electricity that I must perch near and gather from. My inspiration, regarding authors includes a list of recent poets
Radio Transmissions // 4 Zachary Scott Hamilton read and reread, starting here: Alice Notley The Decent of Alette is a great start because in her book, she breaks the rules in all new, readable ways. Every line is surrounded in quotation marks, creating the illusion of many voices speaking at once. Instead of line breaks, Alice Notley confines the lines within these quotes to create a sort of story being told to the reader. She inspired me so much in this book, because she was able to break all of the rules, but did so in a way that is necessary for the poem. She bridges her world to the readers. That is the kind of thing I am interested in doing with poetry. I must learn the rules first and break them latter in an intentional manner, before I will be taken seriously. Other writers such as Pamela Alexander inspire me greatly, with her distorted syntax, mixed metaphors and intentional line breaks, she wrote a poem â€œLook Hereâ€? about a man walking down the street in Moose boots and a coat made of musk ox with pockets full of fish and sky. This poem inspired me greatly, and I went hunting for her lovely book, Inland which I read last night. Her other poems speak kindly of nature, many poems are of the ocean and had a great rhythm so I was able to read the book quickly. I admire this in poets, to write the way they speak, or think. I want to be able to express my thoughts in these ways. Wednesday June 6, 2012 Oregon
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Table of contents T.V. ho.ur-pg.6 Cur.tain– pg 7 White Turkey Feathers – pg.11 Editor-pg.12 Transversal(2)-pg.13 Avar Raskin-pg.22
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(i.) T.V. ho.ur The spade inside my wrist watch shovels dirt. No. it couldn't grow from ivy of twelve hours. A switching of skies that 'stage hands' adjust, Or fish swimming around in the school yard. Calculations pass over our sleeping. Umbrellas opened to the flooded towns. Lingering string bag under caged oceans A new collection of salt has arrived. “Posing near the remains” of an old white – Arguments turn the TV show inward. Wrestling the television in a rink, The hammers tucked in conversation, tour. Long indications woven when spoken Smash their military tongue with calm storm.
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Cur.tain i. We've seen armchairs yarned in factories as they take away great grandmother with cancer of the lungs, a string of long fluid woven into her assembly apt for a tapestry, a long room that is woven of her memorized thread of choice. A Volta television swamp floats until breath emerges gentleman like, heated from its length of rope nerve. Six looping pythons in one belt 4:44, a tilted mirror and a bookshelf.
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iii. Theat.rics doub.led (/when spoken to/) four.teen mirr.ors The radio has got to quit following people into my secrets - I have seen the evidence of other shadows doubling with these voices on the radio. A four head of micron, swallowing outer arm crazy springs. Our life hair challenges them, Marquis Sylvania, an albatross equilibrium. Harsh bone puzzle hands twinkle down, to plant a Hammond organ growing from the soil (hours) plastic touching
He can play very well, his fingers ripe, his hands potatoes, a harm of fire towers giving birth. The year is reconsidered from a palace in the rosemary our mice neighbors twinkle fingers up
Radio Transmissions // 9 Zachary Scott Hamilton proposed leaf ( / ) long shapes in hand-assembly. The shouting, undressing shallow end of the swamp
old pin point swing sets singing
our pearl necklace â€“ ink warped leaf fabric somehow diamond's connected rude shelters, but argyle
Four headed television rug arcs to the necklace pillow butter, luminous hallows inside letters chiseled of ice weave, foam reflection â€“ lamp shade on lamp shade, tan pillow case, mirror maze.
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ii. A fragile, breakable exhale comes in through a python repetition of half eyes. The silk in my feeling is spinning anchors â€“ one way spatial relations, a low cloud stripes up sticks, a life can be a lovely beginning. A lewd, distracted light emerges, I am resting the speaker to your velvet thigh all rosemary arranged in radio, red language.
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White Turkey feathers AHIMA the glass lake society A rummage sale weaving lichen windows 'through hands through' a window washer (pull the rip chords on a new test curtain) cardboard branches, glittering limbs, a spruce! Turn to the rooms, average light on painted cherry wood. Flamingo nightmares waddle around the tree. Witness lapdog witness (roams to cedar opening) â€œRye bread lap dogâ€? roaming. Cut out snowflakes [taped] to the tree, flamingo's nibble at cardboard branches to telephone cable valentine wash, the curled up lights, feet turned to fish, feet in Porcupine lashes A coy pond, a big, black screen, a lilting cherry blossom represented in green numbers and letters. A foiling attempt at wandering four tongues used to lead a long gravel road to a shot out, paint ball gun training warehouse. An old Chevy without a hood, doors, Engine.
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Editor But you forgot to bring the wing mechanism to the house (pop. 1440) They searched fire for its beginning and found roses but did they search the mirror â€“ A part of me has been formed from linen 3,500 years old Nashville was made out of daffodils A part of my arm is made out of daffodils? Nautilus Japan Established flowers that will terminate campaign Atlanta Normandy France peers in the globe from a cloud (flax oil steed with good muscles) gold dancing situated in the bruises selected leading fingers Does the cloud have handle bars on it so I can climb around and drive it in the morning The breakfast pyrotechnics will be established early Do they have red valves inside of your mirror or do I need to get my own pyrite for this?
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TRANSVERSAL (2) Small ash in the Corvus talons to the park, leading devises on, needle knitting the hours. Already woven of breath, as rusted skeletons, cola rivers, crochet hooked paper flowers warp and dangle across the atmosphere, Solar raccoons, glass shape shifter, tube of oak, now wire connection, now soft tissue, melon eyes, gravel, grass, and fertile soil. Glitter spills in the loom, in the hour of our shed combinations. A lime tile which is white coy pond ceiling, swimming in the fabrics. Small thighs tattooed with [lights] â€“ and Idiots among a wing, holy tomorrow, Bad Applesâ€“ Neon yarn Stitches the house to a factory's wall. Cages cross stitch, sharpening wires, sand to glass in a slow mutation in a silver chest. Tunneling forward to the train, there, inside of a mucus thread and stone entryway, leaves Semolina noodles to Starfish city.
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Sipping water from a teal bruised twilight. Drinking daisy’s from the Glass. Babbling the lips of their potassium rooms within – Just as much as our Nova, the neighbors of sunset. Plays will occur there in chests. Heat will plan and discipline DNA strings with the fifth cabinet of a spring loaded now. A third flinched perspective layer we water the windows – Drifting to solvent lights, blinking to pouring, walking to line formed of oranges. And inside hands, shelved along the diaspora, sphere or ring finger of life perches. every movement on the fish. Now, swimming circles through the clouds under the seams out of the spirals trained to the spinning black and circling white—
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cushions, solar waves downward circa  France. Scoop the air into a bucket the saltwater layers, air , and cakes. The dormant isosceles of the Field, growing our taste for [breath]. My [3d] glasses set on a shelf in the medicine cabinet. Purple worm like a dress in the micro world, in the crevices, designed around the dark, for the swim or infinite equations housed in a fear bite. Wouldn't it take up thirty floors of the cube, electrocuted pauses. Written through the sound of the walls, so much dancing our wing grows saturated. Light loosens, a light cleaner, machine houses where we dissolve fluids. We land upon the ready-made star, a photograph of our dead past we've clutched in our sweat on the train ride.
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Unknowingly clutched at it's disappearing edges, digging at it. Fine, trimmed razors. Stars let open secret doors in the wall, followed by light lurks, white snow beneath carpet. Gathering dimensions, we have seen the entryway. Numbered hours On the shores drafting a 'boat' in secret designed eyes in a need to kiss. Tortures that make sense taped to later braille. We've transplanted this room with guitar strings, lights, water, the crown, our heads, a chair, the table top, dust covered papers, the DNA, strings, an edge of the sky, always folded neatly around the shoulders. A broadcast on our roof top making little piles of sun on its transmission and Michelle's flowers. Her hair dancing to the radiotransmissions
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from Russian satellites until the night is shadowed In language, ghostly faces of her and Vladimir at the dark patches of the house. Little men facing behind the laundry room door after sun set â€“ Languages, corroding in our living room. I see the kitchen, and noodles climbing wallpaper to spell names. A Soviet gardener, Static, A late night pill, static, Static, Static, her hair is entangled with noodles, cooked to perfection. Walls corroding soft, warm light. Letters, an orange peel, the sky. Retro-fitted clouds, a porch landing. Circular Tuesdays, ship, crossing roses. In ivy shelves,
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the rooms pool into a [cup.] we decide to arouse it and call it a brain. [laced] in the diamond shadows we've put iris around the doorways. With a divine cut the stone â€œwe,â€? the saw-blade dissolve. Latticework morning of our garden into the [cup.] Woven lime to golden screws, Little portraits of the strawberry kitchen. Picture, Cherry lines, ligaments, cortex, an opening. Our previous rooms collide making one tall, wind building. The radio last night strung together the chimney to the person, the diamond to the scissors, rinsing out the old radio. When its static is left on, they wash the windows with a shallow tool. They disconnect a molecule and iron the alley. Around the corner, disturbed birds disappear upon a wire.
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Lost to lights in cages and hoursâ€“ The waves coursing upward, breath strokes, headaches, finally a number. Caving in, the old hat seeds locked [rooms] in a golden entry, digits, arm chair maze. Wooden panels Change form with the sea. With the citadel chop- Cohoâ€™s part of me lays lonely in another jagged edge, I send nutrients to the place caused by removed dust. A black mold from the circuit board of my dangling. There is just enough light for a twig, in voices, built of a treasure chest house, stairs, shooting stars, fish in my pond, and escaping light. Steeple of clouds scaring sky. The room with numbers, (sawdust, Dream, fishes.) Plants
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splattered paint, rooms that breathe, Nesting in the clock a Chandelier. Sweet, pressure chained Chandelier. Leaping onto her leisure, legs cross the sky a forest road down flames way. A brand new felt, butterfly nozzle collides with the part that sits nowhere. Jagged to Winter. Down a rope for afternoon with Chandelier hands. Safe here, trail of window frames. The traffic and the transistor, whispering. Arms inside apple trees along a hidden orchard, mid future, draining wind, each other. The
found inside the transmission in picking up
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a new satellite. A soviet segment of the News. broad-cast thin lines and river. The Russian satellite, the new planet we discovered exploring time envelopes. Morva galaxy. gallons of black enamel dormant in rocks. Our old Earth â€“
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Avar Raskin i. Washing threads in long grass, the cloth is Simple Green going through, inside stapled edge, and dynamite Hawaii. The toy needle â€“ it is the entrance maker. ii. Think white Dove light. Be the camera and record only white Dove. Now, record shadows. Think Corvus shadows. Be a mirror, now reflect light, and seek shadows. Now ice Corvus shadows, soak white Doves in Plexiglas, dip the damaged reflection in plastic, wax, or ice, and watch the shadows sink, the light fade, numbered. Now become the glass of a fishing jar, you're the fern. Now look on the oaks within a castle of lights and shadow eyes. iii. Scuffed diamond house, ivoryemerald chair, a paper diamond in life.
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iv. Thank God, the fishing jar is making sense within a castle of golden Light, and crystal light, and shoe string people. A separate entrance comes into play, dipping ladles from the ceiling, very nice slippers for great Sally mouse, hidden by books, so taut in the threads of a fishing jar. A carpet, flashbulb window, for her little wall. She's sleeping (Shhhh) An ancient typewriter for Avar Raskin - a small camera with beddingchild. The kitty cat sniffing at a lock moves the odor, picks up the mucus on tonight. The jar makes sense in a truck show, something fluid. Green, moss light filters into the living room, acting as the dinner table. I'm washing threads in long, grass blade teeth again. Double â€“fractal â€“ tree limbs reflect in the bus stop window.
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RADIO TRANSMISSIONS _________________________ SECTION PRESS (2012) 5028 NE 26th Street Portland, OR 97211 USA Journeysintospace@gmail.com