“From a distance, the narrow wooden booth resembles a confessional.” – The New York Times
The Typewriter Project is a series of site-specific literary installations which invite passersby to join in a citywide poetic exchange that exists in both analog and digital realms.
The project is largely inspired by the idea of an Exquisite Corpse, a surrealist writing game in which several authors contribute to one poem. Each entry in The Typewriter Project can be its own distinct lyric, but ultimately the idea builds on the concept that users will also be influenced by what was written before them on the scroll. By creating a new and unique form of public dialogue, this project hopes to capture something of the sound, narrative, and nuance of specific corners of cities, schools, and spaces all around the country and the world. The Typewriter Project’s mission is to investigate, document, and preserve the poetic subconscious of the city while providing a fun and interactive means for the public to engage with the written word.
These typewriter booths are each outfitted with a vintage typewriter, 100-foot long paper scroll, and a custom-built USB Typewriter™ kit, which allows every keystroke to be collected, stored, and posted online for users to read, share, and comment upon. The Typewriter Project, the brainchild of Stephanie Berger and Nicholas Adamski, is a program of The Poetry Society of New York.
The Typewriter Project — AWP 2018
White lights like train tracks on the night ceiling
All the poets in the halogen cavern might as well be stars
but that doesn’t matter
how would it? We couldn’t even hear the footsteps
moving through the hall
couldn’t hear anything but a low murmur
the sound of business maybe
or a low kind of communication
may the breezes heal you
i son’t really know what to say and just realized i made a typo
and not that she would say any less
my dear one the warrior class
and then she said “That’s ok, you are my best friend too
“I’m sorry I haven’t been there for you.”
“I still love you.”
you can feel the power dynamic in the room; cotton candied stained—
the stomached summers.
ain’t nobody wanna hear about anther white man’s struggle ya heard?
I’m talkin bout t h e w o m a n, ya heard?
walking down the design of a highway the words don’t listen
I went to the lake in Wisconsin with tony in his car that was black
my dad ate my dog
Ribbon oh Ribbon how many miles of ribbon did I type my BA my MA my MFA all on Underwood typewriters. Miles of ribbons thread through cosmos
oceans and black holes. Denise Low
oh so how i cant wait to be done
with the long goodnight
So just like that, everything had changed.
it wasn*t perfect and we knew it never would be, but it worked, and we worked, and that was enough.
Fofor you, but not for me, my mmoonliy girl, how sweet you are, how sweeweet you smell. If i could keep you, please know i would.
I would, i would, i would.
Aand so so i no one sshall stop me aas i venture proudlly into and So i Shall. Venturre proudly
Me and my baby owen are not
but our honey is xoxo
My name is Lake. My favorite food is pizza. Not pizza. I have lotaof favorite foods. I love sushi I also love crab. I love every thingthat comes from the sea. …. Heeello, my family… If anybody is reereaading this onli nine…
Hi, if somebody is reading this online, my name is Emerson.
Iif you touch a stalagmiite they are forever changed
but isnt that tru of everything?
I began. To settle into serioriousness, but just then a man in swampcostume walked by. There is no hope unlunless we open our souls to the sweet raian!
if youyour gl glassses drentched
then mine drippeingdripping-leaving aa rose-tinted trail in my wawakedripping – bbut dropping letting streaks of claarity shine throughughghand my dr. —- dear you look the same to me
whiskey stained and oppossum knowing my words so
i wonderr then, what kind of world tthis
could be for you and me
and what kind of world will it be when weare no longer in it
though the white world
the earth knows their color
This is Zahraa Noorb akhsh. Youre welcome.
The typewriter is in herently an instrumento of brute forc e. It can. Hurt more than. Thee words them selves. Someti es, anyway.the force is an instrument inherent in brutalitybrutes are instrumental
and thiought is in residence with incidents of flutes
champagne champagne champagne champagne champagne
give me orchestras of chamgpagne
don’t speak to me of lutes
sing only with the brutes
listen only to the muteshearhear every word unsaid and then a lacunaea sudden disappearceand for ;once nothing els lof consequnuence for once, and
don’t ask me why im obsessed.
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