A prose poem made of 100 sonnets based upon the writings of Mallarm..
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In Stephen Ratcliffe's Mallarme, sound is the equivalent of content. -- Leslie Scalapino
In a "reading" of Mallarme's prose poems, Ratcliffe survives the risk. His poetics flourish in this dual atmosphere. -- Barbara Guest
There is a meeting point of mind, language and Nature which here translates into connective power, structure and perception. -- Etel Adnan
In a "reading" of Mallarme's prose poems, Ratcliffe survives the risk. His poetics flourish in this dual atmosphere. -- Barbara Guest
There is a meeting point of mind, language and Nature which here translates into connective power, structure and perception. -- Etel Adnan
From the Back Cover
In Stephen Ratcliffe's Mallarm: poem in prose, sound is the equivalent of content, of "meaning as the mental picture. . . from one place to another" in the collection or sequence of poems. This equivalency, a form of "music on the keyboard," is "Writing that echoes itself 'where chance seems to capture the idea.'" Levels occur at the same time (are registered), (such) as the process of reading itself (the reader's ear?): "this writing an account of what it means to be writing that is reading"-which is chance and a superimposition of Ratcliffe's writing onto Mallarm. The parts of the sequence or any poem in it are marked by "nothing," as if a 'level' and a music at the same time: "a crowd / not to bear in mind the image / marked beautiful, nothing / so called the letter / level with a part". (Leslie Scalapino)
In line reflecting a "reading" of Mallarm's prose poems, -a form of surrender, of seduction, of imperilment-Ratcliffe survives the risk. His poetics flourish in this dual atmosphere. They are rinsed with a surprising glow in the valiant process of relieving the Mallarman tension, while maintaining his own arena of sensitivity. (Barbara Guest)
There is a meeting point of mind, language and Nature which here translates into connective power, structure and perception. It is all deceptively clear: in this endeavor to catch primal innocence Stephen Ratcliffe finds himself in a room full of objects and words, and a window which fuses with roses, people and memories, all contributing to a kind of (Mallarman) desperation which-as if they were a bunch of shadows-propels poetic lines onto the pages. (Etel Adnan)
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