Teacher Track Success Tips

The successful candidate will have:
- a terminal degree
- substantial and active publication record
(a minimum of 3 full-length poetry collections
from presses of standing)
- deep commitment to teaching writing at all levels
- demonstrated, energetic experience in program
administration and editorial work
- a desire to participate in, and help shape, the
English Department as a whole
- balloons in high numbers

lovely poem. I don't know how to react as 'a poet' to these activated instances of global misery. in the days and weeks afte 9/11, I wrote a lot but couldn't bear down directly on the turmoil instigation. I mean, IO dont' mind oblique, I',m just saying that I couldn't with quality write of the events. I think it is marvelous that AnnMarie could push away the platitudes in this poem. that's the job, brothers and sisters. I should say that, offhand, I dunno what spainted is.

you excellent citizens of Bramhall Nation can see that the formatting glitch (the long gap between the latest and penultimate posts) seems to be resolved.

I didn't hear of the London bombings till late yesterday afternoon. the sudden info spread that we expect now leaves me feeling as if I missed a whole chapter in the history book. not that I need more news to make me nervous. I was numb from only 4 hours sleep the night before last, consulted neither radio or television, and had other concerns, so my ignorance was reasonable. and I have nothing weighty to add. just now walking the dog and hearing sirens persist for while, makes me edgy. about a year after 9/11 I was in Cambridge, waiting for a subway to whisk me 2 stops up. the doors closed but the train didn't move. people got a bit antsy, it was hot and the train was crowded. I stood near the door. suddenly the door's window exploded outward, which caused the woman standing there to yelp. antsiness increased. the doors opened and a few people got off, figuring the odds of getting anywhere by train were slim. I got off too and headed up Mass Ave by foot. there was unusual police presence on the streets, and I noticed that traffic signals weren't working. well it was a power outage. which, after all, is no surpising thing. so in fact I had no interesting terrorist experience, but in a way, I did. I mean I was mostly just curious about what was going on, but I did feel a tension in the air. it was the same tension when things aren't going as they should, with lack of explanation. but there was the hint of an explanation, a worry. it just hangs around.

judging rashly

Often the change, the city filed by Boston, that is historically advanced into blue or reedy explanation, piled within noises of closed function dust, how together it seems and as an advance, speaking of deft pause while awaiting the next plane in, skirting issues with topic and swell, all the obscure ratios mired in mean belting of roadways into neighbourly concourse, smoothing shirtsleeve up to the minute with barking forest sounds, the mired in gloomy citified mud pies reminiscent of cockatrice or bending rovers, yet adjusted to catalogue and gunk on shoes, eased into the swirl of chucked up sidewalks and meaning through smelting of oblivion with airlines as hegemony, and while we pause with our love, the ghost begins its tapping, Sherpas or shepherds deliver their agonized mountebanks to the clumsy rift focus, and we tell as much to our heralds, who eke what they can, which some say can be poetry, just to live amidst the paint smells and arrive on time, but this is network plus a scosh of purple robe, no one needs to reunite with the flock of history's trust, the boondoggle sweats lodging from the hint to the utmost required financing, even including the definitive weather of where we are. We seem ready enough, tho the fires churn with advantage.

cripes this is excellent. I mean cripes, I've ragged, it seems, on KSM. I have my own neurorses. my questioning of other writers is bitterly a look at myself. bitter at how thick and lost I often am. I don't want to be glib. I was on the Flarf list but I found that I wasn't equal to the particular flarfist challenge. that's actually no big deal, I am merely swivelling in an alternate river direction. on Gary Sullivan's blog (the link is where it should be) is a list to everyone on the Flarf list, and the effort of clicking each one is worth it. I totally recommend these writers, not as flarf-makers but poets in the general scrum. and I am sticking KSM on my links list, great honour. my only meanness will appear when he doesn't post enough.

I like this 'tude particularly. Tom Beckett's poetry may be under rated because he's done such great work as editor, including his nifty blog interviews, but it is worth notice. his measure, to my ear, brings Niedecker to mind. the writing of both writers shows a beguiling modesty. not in the sense of artistic meekness, in fact something quite the opposite and more ferocious, if you can imagine a restrained and gentle ferocity (I am confident you can). the modesty occurs in relation to the words used, and the sort of careful work that is done therewith. with both writers, the poetry doesn't flash but has a well-earned solidity. I really respect this even if it is not within my powers as a writer (in the same way that Jordan Davis's perfect and perfectly restrained diaristic perception (I'm sloppily agreeing with Jonathan Mayhew) or, for that matter, Jack Kimball's wry oblique insistence, or Alli Warren's surprising skew (when she's at home) all fuddle my personal scope. I don't otherwise connect Tom's work with Niedecker. (when I talk compartively of artists I very often resort to resemblance, not in a critical sense of indebtedness but as a means of description only). this particular poem situates distinct words together in a tight atomic unity. jeepers! I'm glad Tom is 'out there'. I mean, not to defend blah-blah-blogosphere, excresences occur, but his blog is an example of an opportunity for those reading.

Erin returned after a month stay with his father in Idaho. we learned yesterday, because he saw that day the homeopath who has done so much for him, that he has type 2 diabetes. welcome home. needless to say a lot of worry on all our parts. the homeopath has done amazing things for Erin over the years. she helped my own less acute blood sugar problem. not to say we will proceed without Erin's regular doctor, but we do have faith in homeopathy. so we drove into Boston after 10:00, Erin's plane wouldn't arrive till 11:30. the Big Dig has been a boondoggle, a criminal conjunction of our sleazy pols and the unsavoury business ethics of Bechtel, but the concept of improving the arteries into Boston is sound. the Zakim Bridge is a pisser, especially at night. I love how cities are filled with these enormous, splendid, overwhelming structures that are indeed just ordinary facts of life. that's why Berenice Abbott's pictures are so compelling. we parked in Central Parking, even this late a maw of unmoving cars. step on the moving walkway (which--do you remember?--were always the definitive element of future life in the Disney/Jetson vision of perfection) and the voice of Mayor Tom Menino regales you with the wonders to be enjoyed within the borders of the Hub of the Universe. his accent must sound incomprehensible to you yokels, so you may not be as excited as you ought to be about the ahts and culcha to be discuvvud in Bawston. we made our way to the ticketing area, a cavern bereft at this time of all but a handful of people. a security person guarding the gate we wanted thwarted our initial attempts to enter. he pointed us to the one ticket person on duty. there was a weary couple ahead of us who were trying to resolve some problem, lost luggage perhaps. the ticket person appeared sympathetic and efficient, which is always nice. when it was our turn, he could allow only one of us to enter the gate. in 2001, Erin returned from Idaho in late august. both Beth and I remarked how chaotic and confused the whole place seemed. 2 weeks later, events beginning from the same Terminal changed the world. which sounds corny or made for television but I guess it's the truth. so I went down to wait at baggage claim while Beth went to greet Erin. it was an hour wait since we arrived betimes. the energy and tension of airports. people wandering around talking on their cellphoens (a feat I cannot manage, give me a well-anchored phone anyday, not that I talk much on the phone), or waiting bored, or greeting loved ones. I was impressed by a limo driver walking back and forth with a sign emblazoned with the name of his client. he was a stocky fellow in a brisk black suit that said limo driver in upscale upmarket terms. his sign was hand-written but encased neatly in plastic, professional all the way. he held the sign at sternum level and walked with a crisp focal stride. you can't manufacture that, you have to own it from the beginning. in contradistinction, there was a woman, no professional, standing before the doors of the restricted high security area from which certain passengers stepped. I don't even know the wherefore of that area (foreign dignitaries? rock stars?). her sign was for Herr German Guy, a hastily scribbled thing. obviously she got hooked into this chore of Virgil to incoming foreigner. she hadn't the confidence of the liveried fellow, was a mere and weary amateur. finally Beth and Erin came down the escalator. Erin was hyped by the plane ride and overwhelmed by the diagnosis of diabetes. some of the walkways, especially coming into Cental Parking, resemble Star Wars sets, the ones where Luke or whoever hangs above a vertiginous drop to comfort the discerning movie-goer's need for drama. a new system for paying your way out of your parking dilemma was instituted some time after we last were there (last month). you take your ticket to a machine and insert cash or credit card. the machine tells you in an anxious voice what to do, in case the written explanations aren't clear enough. take your ticket, take your receipt. this is no time saver, in case you were hoping, because you still have to stop at the ticket thingie and give your ticket to the gatekeeper. I guess this system keeps the cash out of their hands, and out of the hands of those who might rob them. a similar system should've been used to keep tax monies away from Bechtel and our sticky-fingered pols. homeward was a little more challenging because the efficient nearby entrance onto Route 93 was closed and the detour led into cramped, crowded (yet quaint!) North End, a bit hither and yon till you can finally find 93 again. it was 1:00 when we got home, and this and that, and the boy is home.

further updates to Ex Poetical. it's not like all these books are important to me, or that I've read them all, but to see this mass strikes me as instructive. i shouldsay it is a blended library, Beth's and mine. I'm willing to take any book, if someone is getting rid. as it happens, I will be getting rid of a pile of books, possibly more than what I will keep. such will include books that I won't read or reread, and dupes. not the books listed in Ex Poetical, tho you could make an offer...

I will soon be giving out an award for the best Bramhall Blog. currently, all of my blogs are tied for 1st place. since I am the only one voting, strong chance exists that that's how the race will end. stayed tuned for more career excitement!

logos

New York, there,

that island and

its fog, that

graduate when we're

ready to

disguise, or when

prompted, to

run across the

street, that green

weight examining

down to

ridges of perfect

seizures

expressed in numbers

that resemble

canticles

yet invested

with a distinction

startled from

a certain

clumsy

yen for

greeting the surface

tension

or engulfing

the flux with

subway tokens

the colour of

your eyes

the express intention

and other magnets

along the way


New York

has been farcical

clammy dumped

formed

stewed reaching

diametric

offed and still

but no land

exists

beyond a peopled

murk

and we arrive

hourly

instituted with

belief and

systematically

rigid while

betraying a neat

bomb bay

for the masses

to inspect


gracious opulence

sweats in the parlour


your love

is like mine

after all this

guff


poetry teeming

with stewards

of streets

I reupped with Poetics mostly just to see how Gmail works, not that I need Gmail at this time (emergencies like last winter's computer outages). gee, what a pointless list. even with a welcome message trying to explain the point. no creative work allowed. danger Will Robinson! it is just not done. you got to talk poetics stuff, theory in many words. well, I don't think you can get the free exchange of ideas ball going if you limit mode of expression. even if that mode of expression includes flames, which it will in a listserv, flames being an intrinsic fart in listservs. good with bad, like in life. it seems like a poem would be a form of poetics in action. Gmail, for one, segregates posts by threads, so in a glance you can zap the bad ones. and message filters keep you free of infection from bad sorts, if you need that protection. so what's the dillio? check with the rules committee for more info.

last night we looked at the work of an artist that Beth met. Beth met her at a gallery, where the artist was trying to get her work shown. I think I know why the gallery passed, but it is lovely work. she works entirely with pencils, coloured and graphite. she draws iconic scenes of people and animals. I saw resemblance to the work of Rousseau and Chagall, and also of Aleut art. she claimed Persian design as an influence. flat images, but with a surprising weight. I mean the weight of angels, because the images seem to float on the paper with luminous verity. she builds up layers, erases, uses a lot of white. I think she said she used 120 white pencils last winter, an unfathomable amount. her works are small, say around 5x8 mainly. I think the gallery, tho a good one, looks more for works that fit living room decors and big business settings. her works are meticulous and delicate. she does with pencils what other artists would do with watercolour and ink. and she doesn't use water soluable pencils. to get that sort of coverage, she cross hatches. a feature, I'd even call it an oddity, of her work: she pencils in little commentaries as she works. the lettering is tiny, I needed a magnifying glass to read it. random thoughts about the work, or the weather, jotted down as she draws. I found this fascinating. she situates these (now) so that that they can be hidden by matting if one chooses. some buyers have found them intrusive. I think these comments are instrinsic to the work and the process. she showed older work in which the text (in slightly larger lettering) much overwhelmed the image. that is, the words seemed the central aspect of the work. the writing seemed too personal, however, a private journal. we didn't buy anything but intend to.

more on autism at Lawyer Novelist. authority and expertise often become impregnable walls. it's hard not to accept the expert advice of a doctor, or anyone, but you have to wonder how closed minded that person might be.

just to say, I dunno why that vast blank space appears in my blog. I got my people working on it.

the importance of semiotics on our lives 

that there sign could be mighty handy when Thoreau was making his way back from Farmer Ripley's with perhaps a snootful too much 

just the view Thoreau would see from his Oldsmobile as he drove into town for another 6-pak of ice cold Bud 

you can almost see Walden behind that organic cigarette 

Charles River in Waltham. just a few miles downstream a godawful lot of people await the Pops concert and fireworks 

shoestore for people with wide feet (me, I'm normal) 

really outdid myself with this picture 

I think I got excited seeing another church for sale 

across the street from Jack's restaurant 

to the left, another church for sale 

church for sale, one of several 

the house my father remembered (2nd floor apartment) 

the fabric store was closed so we didn't go in 

Arlington, formerly Menotomy, emptied out for the holiday 

be prepared for fun!!! 

today's daylily, and yesterday's... 

milkweed in bloom (lovely smell!) 

the day began with dawn (note rosy fingers thereof... 

both Beth and I missed our fathers today. Beth felt her father's presence close by, not sure in what way, why. I just thought Pop Concert on the Esplanade in Boston. my father liked the Pops, would catch cheap matinees and rehearsals whoa 70 years ago. the last few years, I would watch with him, tho I'm not so much a fan. a way to be with him. I even, most latterly, kind of insisted that he watch, elsewise he'd mechanically go to bed at 7:00. so Beth and I went out, on a fine warmish summer day, Hawthorne's birthday. 1st to the carnival in the town I grew up in. we blenched at the idea of paying a buck entrance fee. I mean, carnivals are largely gross as it is, I was just going for the ghosts. the entrance fee, and the requirement of being searched just warn't like the old days. the music was wrong, "celebrate good times c'mon," and thump thump thump. it's just a grim money dynamo after all, which exhausted charm if it had any at all. so we had the excuse to keep riding. thru Lexington's brand new and solidified crassness, thru Arlington (where Creeley was born), past the house in Cambridge where my father was born, past Mt Auburn Cemetery where Creeley is buried, into Watertown and towards Newton. Newton where Jack Kimball's little restaurant exists. we ate and hung out with the Great Poet just last friday. ah friday, day of traffic! as with friday, today we had a late lunch or linner, crepes and panini (saving room for nutricious air-popped popcorn at home). today Jack was not in, but the joint hopped natheless. homeward the country route. we passed Walden which, for some reason, was closing for 90 minutes. maybe some important PBS documentary was being filmed, or maybe oil rights (I almost spelled that rites) were being auction. I took 150 pictures. are you ready to see them all now???

causative salutation

In a rainforest, young love, a restless dictation, swelters of words.
These words, transcribed or conscripted, realize something in action.
The action takes place sailing. Rivers inhale. the boat stutters in
phrases of indignant rapprochement. Clearly a season begins. The people
of Tangier have set limits. We read the news even now. Potency exhausts
after all. posing for pictures at the end of Massachusetts, relying on
something virtuous in saying so. Or backing up just to assert that
fraction. A town at the end of Massachusetts, looking over to Tangier,
desperate to be in place. The news of place then returns. Tired people
in spirit detach possible inflictions from conflict. Wise cats and dogs
roll into curves. The rainforest is have or enough. distance causes
evaluation. Soon a tunnel thru to the heart of something else, which
will ring Appalachian door harps. Spots on the sun as testaments for
extra centuries. Looming over these messages the quality of mirage. the
holiday isn't real.

cool link, and it sent me to write the piece below: Milkmag I look at capital T Tangier and hardly noice the comparative of Tangy. isn't that odd?

Tangier office

A letter involved in windy Tangier. Givens in sequence until extra ace, with spies attending, plans to be somehow evocative. Truly worried yet also the summer winds down to a point on the tip of a blade of grass. no preposition remains, just the attitude that something depends. So in Tangier, a little exercise of prevailing winds. Boats scuttle as they must, and tired beggars look for a night job.

Muttering outside that, into a child expressing doubt about foxes, remains many crows of the opinion. Suddenly the soft interest of mowing lawn. Grass as Vatican. Walk to work in the morning, to find work as a trunk in the middle of the road. Expressly put there was the excuse.

Meanwhile, in a sense, cinnamon scent engulfs the streets and traces of Tangier. Attention is a paying customer.

A tangy pang of endlesness swamps miracle boats.

Frequency itself becomes a marvel. One stands amidst diversity, only to crow about certain facts. Foxes slip thru the bazaar, nearly assumed as after effects. This person here is William S Burroughs. a slice of something, if only for the moment. Raids will take care of active research. Mousing amongst mildewy canvases and manuscripts, until a history pries open the door. A sense of disdain comes and goes.

They just haven't figured out the prize. Certainty is uncommon. Maybe a portrait for later will suffice.