coupla recently arrived poem books at the library. by Franz Wright and Dan Chiasson. both published by Alfred Knopf, and I guess it is Knopfiness that they exhibit. you know, thin, airy books, lots of blank, air of solemnity. what ways to kill poetry has Knopf not thought of? I'm being tactile here, and the thing doesn't want to be touched. somehow Knopf read Darwin while other publishers of poetry were what, reading poetry? Chiasson's production was granted by several fellowships or what all, including kind and beneficent Harvard. I don't begrudge the free money, but how much support does a little poem book need? I mean time to whip this creation up? it's the work of down time. honest to god, Chiasson needed support for his hobby? for this glib plain by the book stuff? Wright's book is another matter. this guy, clearly, has seen some shit. there's some real kick to it. I just wonder as I read why is it Poetry. okay, it is poetry because the work is broken into lines. broken is the right word. those lines are purely visual, and even there the critical valve barely holds. why must Wright be so slavish to format? he is a poet. he's got a smacked up Bukowski rawness that can't be faked. I mean, I dunno the living truth of his persistent dark night of the soul, but it rings like he means it. but what is the art of poetry to him? I mean that he should formalize what is so sore and needful in him. Knopf is no help. they just want precious, but I think Wright is working with crucial. but that sense of proper format (poetry by the numbers), ugh.