Justin Clemens

Rating: 4.33
Rating: 4.33

Justin Clemens Poems

I, quiet, reflecting, reversed my inanimate lids,
not knowing then that the high heavy black
spires and closed roofs had often shrunk to snows
in the waters glimpsed in the vision
...

with kinski's yowl i shift straight into dogshit ack
i skid & i & he are on another track
i hear louise stand by the stove the day
through face black with smoke and soot
...

Eric, tit–keening dank sty; lusty Rosa
knew hey–days; yah, Sue sigh, in gun–stained balloon.
Then all faces hissed: sigh Hermes, tar more foes, err
in demand! Damn weir–soul, Lenin's nicked moon,
...

Justin Clemens Biography

Justin Clemens (born 22 April 1969) is an Australian academic known for his work on Alain Badiou. A former lecturer in the Psychoanalytic Studies department at Deakin University, Clemens now teaches in the School of Culture and Communication at the University of Melbourne where he earned his degrees. Clemens is currently Secretary of the Lacan Circle of Melbourne, Australia, and art critic for the Australian magazine The Monthly. In his own published work, he writes extensively on psychoanalysis, contemporary European philosophy, and literature. Clemens has also published poetry and prose fiction. Justin Clemens has written extensively in and about philosophy, poetry and art-criticism. His poetry books include The Mundiad and Villain, and he has co-edited and contributed to many major collections on thinkers such as Giorgio Agamben, Alain Badiou, Jacques Lacan and Jacqueline Rose. His essays and reviews have appeared in The Monthly, Meanjin, Overland, Heat, The Autralian Book Review, The Age, The Australian, and elsewhere. His recent works include the poetry chapbook Me 'n' me trumpet, Minimal Domination, a collection of art-criticism, and Forgetting Takes Work, an online digital artwork made in collaboration with Adam Nash and Christopher Dodds. He is currently working on a book with A.J. Bartlett about the concept of impossibility.)

The Best Poem Of Justin Clemens

Dürer: Innsbruck 1945

I, quiet, reflecting, reversed my inanimate lids,
not knowing then that the high heavy black
spires and closed roofs had often shrunk to snows
in the waters glimpsed in the vision
of an interloper air. At the back, cowled in the real
All, now I find Dürer repeats once more,
that, slumberous, the alien dead trespass on mind
to find colourful ignorance, dream-painted waters,
men’s books warned of it. As robber of the would-be,
I knew it, perceived it too, in the easy art that I have.
I am still that swan, but others had not read its I
is no one.

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