Out of the graveyard of the typographic imagination
designs turn whimsical, with no designs on our pocketbooks
promotions done with panache for no product
the receding rhapsody of graphic showmanship was biding its time
ready to flare again at any moment...
and it does so without a whiff of nostalgia
sprung from the cage of utility
to strut its neo-constructivist vigor
freshly outdated to rescue the hopelessly modish
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
this is an exceptionally well written and intriguingly insightful poem, touching on the edges of thought, exploring issues of who sparks imagination, who does the work, who gets the credit, who is discarded tossed away