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4 people looking toward the east.

28 Mar

Image

(yes). ice mountain from foot of falls.

17 Mar

(yes). Delaware River from highest promontory.

14 Mar

 

another unmemory vintage postcard from the PRJ 4 intertext

PRJ 1, 2, and 3, and Remaking Moby-Dick: an update

12 Mar

We are now making all issues and projects of PRJ available as free download. If you’d like a print copy, we are offering them at cost.

PRJ 3 print ($7.40 cost plus shipping)free download


PRJ 2 print ($7.04 cost plus shipping)free download


PRJ 1 print ($6.86 cost plus shipping)free download


Remaking Moby-Dick print ($11.48 cost plus shipping)free download; at Scribd; at Amazon

 

The files are huge, but they are now all yours.

(yes). pre-apocalypse postcard.

12 Mar

 

 

found image as intertext, 2017

Editor’s note: In every issue of PRJ, we include an intertext of reinterpreted found objects or images that run parallel, and sometimes counter, to the issue theme. In the Worksongs for the Apocalypse issue, the intertext takes the form of found vintage postcards, each with a handwritten “yes” somewhere on the image. We’ve interpreted these cards and the yeses as a sort of rememory, someone in a world of gray skies far from the life they once knew looking through the paper archives of a lost world and affirming in ink their connection to what they’ve lost. Each yes both reconnects the writer to that world and acknowledges the writer’s distance from it.

Image

the last lines of every poem in Marosa di Giorgio’s The History of Violets, in a wordcloud

24 May

cloudviolets

last lines from Lyrical Ballads

23 May

It is an ancyent Marinere, he rose the morrow morn.
I never saw the man whom you describe.
He lived and died among the savage men.
Nay, Traveller! rest. This lonely yew-tree stands in lowliness of heart.
No cloud, no relique of the sunken day Sweet Nightingale! once more, my friends! farewell.
By Derwent’s side my Father’s cottage stood, of that perpetual weight which on her spirit lay.
Oh! what’s the matter? what’s the matter? of Goody Blake and Harry Gill.
It is the first mild day of March: we’ll give to idleness.
In the sweet shire of Cardigan, has oftener left me mourning.
I have a boy of five years old, of what from thee I learn.
A simple child, dear brother Jim, and said, Nay, we are seven!
I heard a thousand blended notes, what man has made of man?
There is a thorn; it looks so old, Oh woe is me! oh misery!
In distant countries I have been, it is the last of all my flock.
And this place our forefathers made for man! by the benignant touch of love and beauty.
Her eyes are wild, her head is bare, and there, my babe; we’ll live for aye.
‘Tis eight o’clock, — a clear March night, and that was all his travel’s story.
How rich the wave, in front, imprest by virtue’s holiest powers attended.
Why William, on that grey stone, and dream my time away.
Up! up! my friend, and clear your looks, that watches and receives.
The little hedge-row birds, And there is dying in an hospital.
Before I see another day, I shall not see another day.
The glory of the evening was spread through the west; would plant thee where yet thou migh’st blossom again.
Five years have passed; five summers, with the length more dear, both for themselves, and for thy sake.

 

(Thank you, Wordsworth and Coleridge.)

 

If this belief from Heaven be sent, If such be Nature's holy plan, Have I not reason to lament What man has made of man-

 

(You can also download the image as wallpaper.)

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