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There is something wonderfully suspicious about a painter who writes a poem called “Bimbo’s Pome.” The spelling is deliberately wrong. The poem is written in the voice of a cat. Its subject is a violin, a master, smoking, scratching and irritation. It is only a handful of lines long, and yet it immediately tells us something important about Paul Klee: he was not particularly interested in keeping the world in its proper categories. Klee was a natural draftsman who experimente

There is something quietly unsettling about opening David Markson’s Collected Poems. Not because the poems are obscure in any fashionable or performative way, but because they seem to have already abandoned the expectation that they should make themselves legible to you. They do not unfold. They sit there, almost indifferent, like objects recovered from a mind that has stopped negotiating with clarity. Even the foreword admits, with a kind of shrug, that some of these poems a