poetry of technology
Lecture in Contemporary English Literatures
University of Silesia
Marcin Sarnek
Thomas Pynchon, The Crying of Lot 49
…a vast sprawl of houses which had grown up all together like a
well-tended crop, from the dull brown earth; and she thought of
the time she’d opened a transistor radio to replace a battery
and seen her first printed circuit. The ordered swirl of houses
and streets, from this high angle, sprang at her now with the
same unexpected, astonishing clarity as the circuit card had.
Though she knew even less about radios than about Southern
Californians, there were to both outward patterns a
hieroglyphic sense of concealed meaning, of an intent to
communicate. There’d seemed no limit to what the printed
circuit could have told her (if she had tried to find out); so in
her first minute of San Narciso, a revelation also trembled just
past the threshold of her understanding…. she and the Chevy
seemed parked at the centre of an odd, religious instant. As if,
on some other frequency, or out of the eye of some whirlwind
rotating too slow for her heated skin even to feel the centrifugal
coolness of, words were being spoken…
Some say the world will end in fire,
Some say in ice.
From what I've tasted of desire
I hold with those who favor fire.
But if it had to perish twice,
I think I know enough of hate
To say that for destruction ice
Is also great
And would suffice.
Robert Frost, 1920
pity this busy monster, manunkind,
not. Progress is a comfortable disease:
your victim (death and life safely beyond)
plays with the bigness of his littleness
electrons deify one razorblade
into a mountainrange; lenses extend
unwish through curving wherewhen till unwish
returns on its unself.
A world of made
is not a world of born - pity poor flesh
and trees, poor stars and stones,but never this
fine specimen of hypermagical
ultraomnipotence. We doctors know
a hopeless case if - listen: there's a hell
of a good universe next door; let's go
E.E.Cummings, 1944
Angel
Beams of the dawn at the angel
with a calm, silent sea
with a hundred times we write,
with a chance we can open up
a steady rhythm in his face
silent room
desolate beach,
Scattering remains of love.
...I
...I
recall the passion
exploding hourly at my lips
like an angel's bed
to the rest.
Dark
I am the dark.
on
the night
The
past of love
gone stale.
Imagine Now And Sing
Imagine now and sing,
creating myths
forming jewels from the falling snow.
The Saxophone Player
The saxophone player
lives alone,
blows
lives alone,
blows
a swinging door
splendid silence
prophetic poses
splendid silence
prophetic poses
of a prayer and the walls.
I May Ask One
I may ask one
who beats the
passion drum insane,
who beats the big black ties and
wrote out of
high school and now to share
this rush with the
passion drum insane,
inducing sleepless nights,
drum insane,
inducing sleepless nights,
visited by the ravens eye.
All Of Art
His canvas is all of art.
There's room for a peace,
room for the heart's full and rain.
room for a little bit of the sea;
room for it fast in a time to be
room for many things in command.
for it becomes a peace,
And so to behold.
Soul (A haiku )
You broke my soul
the juice of eternity,
the spirit of my lips
I Think I'll Crash
I think I'll crash.
Just for myself with God
peace on a curious sound
for myself in my heart?
And life is weeping
From a bleeding heart
of boughs bending
such paths of them,
of boughs bending
such paths of breeze
knows we've been there
Ray Kurzweil's Cybernetic Poet
(RKCP)
AARON - the Cybernetic Artist
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created by Harold Cohen
London's Tate Modern Galley
Amsterdam's Stedelijk Museum
San Francisco Museum of Modern Art
Brooklyn Museum
all have purchased and diplayed art by
AARON