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A clip from the terrifying Czech version of Alice in Wonderland.

1) Read the following poem by James Wright: Autumn Begins in Martins Ferry, Ohio In the Shreve High football stadium, I think of Polacks nursing long beers in Tiltonsville, And gray faces of Negroes in the blast furnace at Benwood, And the ruptured night watchman of Wheeling Steel, Dreaming of heroes. All the proud fathers are ashamed to go home. Their women cluck like starved pullets, Dying for love. Therefore, Their sons grow suicidally beautiful At the beginning of October, And gallop terribly against each other's bodies. 2) Extricate yourself from the puddle of tears into which you have crumbled. 3) Can you think of another poem that uses a word like “therefore” as brilliantly as this one does?

On fourth of July, alone in my kitchen and the sound of distant fireworks. I drink cheap Merlot, watch the dark break and enter through the windows. I am all over the Internet, but would rather be all over someone else: a tangent. A tanager. Today, by the river I saw a scarlet tanager. Had only seen them in bird books before, and for a minute all doom lifted. my mood is so easily healed, and then so easily thrashed back against the shoal of its wounding: rocks, jetties. If there were a sea I would calm it with the palm of my hand, and walk across the waves. But there is no sea only its sound inside me. Part the red Merlot! Open the wounds! Every Easter we would [...]

I probably should state right off the bat that I am not a philosopher by trade. If I mess up philosophical terms and definitions, feel free to correct me. I tend to have a more intuitive approach to philosophy, rather than a systematic one. Thus, I tend to explain things by analogy. I recognize the limits of this, but I hope, nonetheless, to contribute to real discussion. Also, I am skipping ahead in Grossman significantly, past the discussions with Halliday, about halfway into Summa Lyrica. I am doing this because last week I read the passage “‘I’ in the Lyric” and was excited by Grossman articulating something I have been trying to articulate for a long time. In this passage it seems that Grossman is attacking the idea of “otherness.” [...]

A missing Pleiades in the viewable cluster of stars cannot deny us motion though we cannot master its name: there is something you are not telling me standing at the standing stone detained neither by chicken wire nor the upright megalith we imagine pulsing and in so thinking feel the earth beneath us breathe: [...]

Charles Olson measured 6'8" tall and like many mammals of large appetite he died young, at 59. His life revolved around the history of the small coastal town of Gloucester, Massachusetts, and its present, where he was born and lived until his liver failed. Vulcan was a god of fire in its destructive and beneficial iterations. Apollo was a god of fire too, but his fire was the sun that gives light and life. Or so I gather. What I love in reading Charles Olson has never been the grasp of history evidenced by the Maximus poems and 'on which his reputation rests.' Rather it's the scraps and asides George Butterick ordered chronologically in the 600+-page Collected. Lines like the plaintive 'Letsuzstayawayfromparades' from "O'Ryan 11-15" pretty much nail it down: [...]

Lucille Clifton said many things outside of poems that felt like poems, and many of us who were blessed to sit in front of her and hear her speak remembers these words.

Wandering the shadowless aisles of the supermarket a couple of days ago, I passed a colorful phalanx of plastic-shielded, heart-shaped cakes.  Realizing that Valentine’s Day was nigh, that other people would be putting forkfuls of these hearts into their mouths in the hours that followed, and that a good many of these displayed hearts would be thrown into the dumpster out behind the store, naturally, I thought of love poetry. My partner of the past three years recently introduced me to a volume of poems entitled This is My Beloved.  I have no idea where she got it, but four minutes of first-rate Internet research informed me that Knopf first published this little tome in 1943, that the author, Walter Benton, was an Austrian-born Russian immigrant who worked a variety [...]

(image by David Shapiro ©2010) "Three coyotes turned up on the Columbia University campus on Sunday morning, prompting an e-mail alert to students and faculty." A coyote is sweetness itself compared to a professor— and a professor is selfless compared to a poet— even the meanest sculptor is not as stupid as a University— a wild animal is gentle and tame compared to a critic— a bobcat is meek and mild compared to any Intellectual— the zoo containing all is a garden compared to a Department no architecture is as fragile as friendship as vicious as love No stepmother is as horrible as the one you are stuck with No poem looks as good as the one you will find out is nothing when a mother calls you up you [...]

Here we are in the early days of Black History Month, churning steadily towards Women’s History Month, & chugging heartily towards National Poetry month; it is 2010. We are ending the Year of the Ox, charging headlong to the Tiger’s year; Valentine’s Day will, for some of us, be (wonderfully) subsumed by Chinese New Year. It is 2010 and Brooklyn has finally gotten its “blizzard”. Years ago, when I lived in Binghamton, I thought the fog was lovely, the snow was lovely, all of that weatherly white was lovely. Until I stepped from the dense white of fog, the soft fur of white snow, into a town filled with a severe whiteness. It wasn’t so much the faces as the attitudes. Twice a year, when I head to Vermont to [...]

Let's begin with a recording of Ode on a Grecian Urn recited by Richard Howard, which was taken on 2/12/2010 through my iPhone. Ode on a Grecian Urn Thou still unravished bride of quietness, Thou foster child of silence and slow time, Sylvan historian, who canst thus express A flowery tale more sweetly than our rhyme: What leaf-fringed legend haunts about thy shape Of deities or mortals, or of both, In Tempe or the dales of Arcady? What men or gods are these? What maidens loath? What mad pursuit? What struggle to escape? What pipes and timbrels? What wild ecstasy? Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard Are sweeter; therefore, ye soft pipes, play on; Not to the sensual ear, but, more endeared, Pipe to the spirit dities of no tone. [...]

I thought I'd share some Mayer sonnets, as Valentine's day is almost upon us. Love nor the sonnet is standard in Mayer’s world, and she highlights the possibilities/ multiplicities of poetics and of love. After all, desire doesn't always follow a neat and tidy pattern. SONNET So long honey, don’t ever come around again, I’m sick of you & of your friends, you take up all my time & I don’t write Poems cause I spend all my time wanting to fuck you & then You put the apple onto the grilled cheese, I tie you up Save me from your respective beauties, keep them home Thanks for all the rock & roll music, if such a Thing can be said. Who are those guys? The B-52’s? That’s what Ethie [...]

I am happy to be posting on an even-numbered day in an even-numbered month in an even-numbered year. Give It Up! It was very early in the morning, the streets clean and deserted, I was on my way to the station. As I compared the tower clock with my watch I realized it was much later than I had thought and that I had to hurry; the shock of this discovery made me feel uncertain of the way, I wasn't very well acquainted with the town as yet; fortunately, there was a policeman at hand, I ran to him and breathlessly asked him the way. He smiled and said: "You asking me the way?" "Yes," I said, "since I can't find it myself." "Give it up! Give it up!" said [...]

I'm don't consider myself a comfortable elegist (is anyone?), but reading of Alexander McQueen's death this morning forces me to take up the mantle. I'm not a huge fashion-buff, but I made the walk past the McQueen store on 14th Street a highlight of my daily commute when I worked in Chelsea. His clothes seemed to me wild and well-tailored in the English way. His suits would have fit beautifully in this show at the V&A in London a few years back; he's one of the only contemporary designers who would have fit, I think; and I mean fit while also doing his own, completely contemporary thing. That show, by the way, was a revelation. So, Mr McQueen, we are sad that you are not with us anymore. Here is [...]

I want to begin praising If There is Something to Desire by Vera Pavlova, translated by Steven Seymour (her husband, her muse! how romantic, how intrinsic!) released last month from Knopf, her first collection published in English. These one hundred poems go so far so terrifically fast (almost all under ten lines) that Pavlova seems to intentionally strive to increase poetry's audience and relevance—this is, after all, Love in the Time of Tweets and Text Messages—with brevity and bravura; meditations for our culture's dwindling (and, mostly, already shallow) attention spans. This Valentine's day, send an entire poem to your dearest—take number 14 for example: the lengthy course of a relationship in eighty characters: No love? Let us make it! Done. Next? Let us make care, tenderness, courage, jealousy, glut, lies. [...]

My Dear Theo, I am writing to you rather reluctantly because, for a good many reasons, I have kept silent for such a long time. To some extent you have become a stranger to me, and I to you perhaps more than you think. It is probably better for us not to go on like that. It is probable that I would not have written to you even now, were it not that I feel obliged, compelled, to do so - because, be it noted, you yourself have compelled me to. I heard in Etten that you had sent 50 francs for me. Well, I have accepted them. With reluctance, of course, with a feeling of some despondency, of course, but I have reached a sort of impasse, am in [...]