I just read a book on the Crusades, a history of pleasant, reasonable people acting pleasant and reasonable, and got a hankering to read more of the Knights Templar. I walked over to the library in the rain yestreen in search of a simple history. I came home with a motley crew. one is the book that Dan Brown was accused of plagiarizing for Da Vinci Code, one is about the secret society at Yale, Skull and Bones, and one seems to connect the Trilateral Commission, Freemasons, and pyramids. nothing overly scholarly here, one might infer. well inferred. truth up, I'm not into conspiracy. I think of the JFK conspiracy connoisseurs in Slacker (could Linklater make another movie half as good?). connections turn into torrents of implacable force, without the supple initiative of Guy Davenport's linkages. I feel no satisfaction in grassy knoll, whate'er the truth. it just doesn't seem to matter. the book from which D-Code was bestsellerized came out in 1982. what gets me is how utterly new all this stuff became under the force of Brown's book. presumably millions of living humans had already been titillated by the possibility of J Christ, family man, and all the rest of it. yet D-Code hit like a revelation, didn't it? curious. I don't even want to read the one in which freemasons and pyramids unite in some totalitarian death match. so long as I know who poisoned the wells, blah blah blah. the Skull and Bones book may actually be reasonable reportage, in a New Yorker sort of way. it's no stretch to think that networking occurs. what the hell is "information"? isn't that a prime consideration, writer-wise? things "happen", then language "interprets". and poetry is a working within the concepts of language, yet is not "informative". try on a conspiracy, in which vital force presses drastic distinctions. language becomes unified idea, a political dreariness of import. LANGPO is disappointing in its academic view of politics, as if political motives were only for the overly educated. so they tripped about with language... I'm not attacking LANGUAGE poetry, which greatly influenced my own understanding of poetry, but the political veneer in which some of it has been wrapped has proven pale, classroom activism. which is to say, point blank, that political activism is active language. not activating language, which is what we call bad poetry anyway, but language in its active life. poetry is not the same as hype, tho even poets need publicists.

hey, I belong in an alphabet with famous people! (This index)

having now read a lick of IN RI, I point to its purchaseability, namely here. not that I've DYI'd up a storm myself, but that vertical integration of the creative process seems important, especially as opposed to the Please Please Me School of Poetry, which transcends SOQ, Langpo, Flarf and you name it. what I mean is that the critical onslaught suits categories and shrinkage, but not me, for one. any effort to disengage from those terms is applaudable. look: one of my hands is applauding even now! I ramp up this verbiage for more specific reason, tho. Henry takes us into early colonial history, Roger Williams, Salem Witch trials and such. I'm keen on those areas of concerns, those seedlings. I would say Henry cavorts with a quite graceful reading of Crane and Olson, by which I mean, a guarded sense of romance within a historical context: hard facts and poetic wonder. he's on record about Crane, I'm less sure of any Olson claim, but the point isn't what his antecedents are, but a vision of the neighbourhood in which he wanders. I really like the size of the book too, seems about 5x8. I did indeed pocket it, and read it during enforced waiting. I have yet to declaim the Italian version, that demands more private circs than Starbucks, but to that I look forward. so 2 reasons to try the book: that its DYI deployment is worthy of support (as all such efforts had ought to be), and just that the unique nature of this tributary to the big river is worth a read. or you could follow the crowd.

just a quick note re Henry Gould, whose In Re now is my possession. this is not a review, I haven't read a lick of it yet, but I want to note once again the project that Henry has launched upon. it is a grandiose scheme of history and reminiscence and mystic whatsis. he's taking the modernist Big Poem into strange lands that bow to formality yet tweak it. that's a rasty encapsulation that I offer only as a stepping stone into the river, whoop. this here book includes an en face translation into Italian by Anny Ballardini, which right there makes a fetchingly different turn on expectation, and don't forget to call it collaboration. I've dabbled in Italian enough to like reading it aloud, not so much understanding (comprehension is overblown), but look: that added music. Henry speaks on his blog on the size of the book: truly pocket-sized. I have a few Dell editions, notably Whitman, that do fit in pocket, and that's a treat that I make use of. like, my last jury duty, I had Whitman with me on the train, and waiting in the jury pool. so I'm really thrilled to have this addition to my Gould library, and look forward to my swim. and with a glancing ref to Shanna Compton's dyi theory, I want to laud Henry's own Do It Yourself.

final post of the sand mandala. we arrived as Tenzin and others readied for the dismantling. the school wanted the dismantling to occur outside where there was more room for the students to see. it's a boy's school. I thought it was co-ed as girls were around. the table was carried thru the doorway and students gathered round. some of the faculty spoke a few enriching words then Tenzin gave a glimmer of Buddhist precepts. then he chanted a prayer and while ringing a bell he used a tool to cut the lines of the mandala then invited boys to take a brush and sweep the sand into the centre of the table. now, I don't want to get all exotic about this, the temptation is there, but a sense of the life of the work was very evident. in seeing it created, in how he approached it: you could think of it as a world. after the ceremony the sand was to be taken to the Concord River, the selfsame by which I was born. we went there with a woman and her son who we know. the sky pended imminent thumper. the site where Tenzin would release the sand was where we had encountered the winter solstice celebration on our wedding anniversary last year. a place that native Americans were said to hold dear, and where colonists pastured their cattle. Tenzin sat at the river's edge and chanted then took the jar of sand and, ringing a bell and chanting, poured it here and there into the water. rain fell as he did so. when he finished, the windows of heaven opened, with thunder and lightning. a release, I should say, that seemed quite a propos. pictures at 11.

we made another visit to the sand mandala. when we arrived, no one was around. soon Tenzin scuttled in and got back to work.it's a slow process requiring patience. people came in and out. several students addressed him familiarly. classes, no doubt, were brought to him. one faculty member, presumably, asked if she could ask a question. to wit: Tenzin what am I going to do without you. having become used to the sound of his scraping funnels, and his presence... yes yes yes, lovely. it wasn't too far from flirting. I guess he'd heard it before. he gave her sermon about accepting the moment and not grasping. he was a pretty funny fellow. yesterday Erin said, I have 3 questions for you, and he repeated oh three, as if it were amazing. chuckling as he said it. and he answered everything Erin threw at him. I asked about a repeated figure on the mandala, which was in every outer segment. he explained. a bit after, I noticed one of the segments lacked the symbol. I waited till a break in his work to point that out. he'd been talking about contentment, being able to die happy, so I said, when he began to fill in the lapse, now I can die happy. I admit to having an inclination towards buddhism, but very little practice. you think of Jim Behrle going all Holden Caulfield worrying about phonies, feh, that nervous reputation chatter. what's more interesting is being present and letting the moment. I mean, reading an agenda, that's a pretty slow beat to dance to. whereas what is poetry but reading a life of language in some present when one writes. the chuckle above that seems so pale and worthless. I say seem, I only mean how it strikes me.

okay so here's the cartoon that came to me. two people standing, dressed as firefighters. one holds some sort of contraption. a human head can be seen on the ground near a headless corpse. the head has a befuddled expression. the one without the contraption says to the other, 'I said the Jaws of Life, Jenkins, not the Jaws of Death'. great, huh? you will note the canny use of the name Jenkins, this being one of the official names to be used in cartoon punchlines. nota bene, in style this cartoon would be drawn Thurberesquely. like in his cartoon in which a fencer lops off his opponent's head, crying 'touche', the point is bloodlessness, and the feeling that severed heads can be plopped back into place. I woke in the middle of the night with this cartoon in my head.

Ven. Tenzin Yignyen

Ven. Tenzin Yignyen, originally uploaded by allen_bramhall.

altar

deities

applying sand with funnel (Chakpu)

etc

just saw a Tibetan sand mandala in production. the work of Ven. Tenzin Yignyen, who currently teaches at Hobart and William Smith Colleges. he was set up in a room at a starchy private school in Concord. a pissa nice art facility, as it happens. he was in a room with lots of paintings on the wall. plus some masks that resembled, to my mind, Tibetan deities. the work of students. I took pictures, which was okay with him, but Blogger wasn't into it, and they landed on my blog with a great deal of extra space, so I removed them and will try otherwise. his work began monday, setting up and chanting. a couple of thangka were on the wall and below that a table with unlit candles and glasses of saffron tea. offerings. Beth and Erin saw a much larger mandala done in Boise, which 6 monks worked on. it was a healing mandala. here the table was a bit larger than a card table, and the mandala itself maybe as much as 42" across. a compassion mandala. when we arrived a boy was sitting nearby playing guitar. other students came and went. the person from who we learned of the event, a homeschooler, arrived with her son. we stayed for about an hour. we'll try to make a visit tomorrow, and on friday, when it is dismantled. for an artist, the sense of impermanence is difficult. we all have glimmers that we lose, and you never know when something might get lost. or as the resident dog has done in periods of nervous distress (worries of abandonment), namely, eaten paintings by both Beth and me. there's a certain egolessness in art, in its creation, yet when the work is complete and free to bumble about the world, we tend to become more possessive. my work. so it goes. Stephen Vincent's mother seems to be facing these issues now, both holding on, at times, and letting go. that wish to stay, that urge to go.

Stephen Vincent faces the aging parent with equanimity, as this post attests. what more can I comment? in my own test, I was wearied by the daily grind of it, of the father who is the child to the man. one does what one can. I learned something larger than me in serving the father, or the moment. in serving the mother, differently and long ago. I cannot presume some right way, but I see language at overwhelming mercy of the imperative. that our words won't hold all we want, that life strides past. language isn't mastered.

I cycled to Great Meadows yesterday. it's a Nat'l Wildlife Preserve not far away. Thoreau mentions it on page 1 of A Week on the Concord and Merrimack. a dike runs down the middle of it, with water on both sides. 2 Canada geese looked like they might block my way but they sashayed away when I approached. I saw what I briefly thought might be white domestic geese up ahead but realized it was a pair of swans. one was in the water and the other on shore and both paid me no never mind. I got as close as 5' from them. seemed like I could get closer, but thoughts of their rows of razor sharp teeth, and of being just one more victim of murderous swans, I kept back. lots of pictures, tho. even some movies of some other swans in flight. they make an odd, raspy metallic sound as they fly. is it their wings or their breathing? as graceful as they are on water, they stumble with take offs and landings. they launch by running on the top of the water till they can pull themselves into the air. they glide into landings, stick their feet out and crash into the water. when I showed Beth some of the pix, she wanted to go over. I hadn't seen swans there before. we got back out there, with Erin, around 5, with the sun at a slant to the west across the water. Beth took lots of nice pictures and Erin picture and some excellent movies. all hail the digital camera. we saw a great blue heron in the distance. as we watched a crowd of barking geese hounded the bird and it flew grandly away. a goose on the path was intent on browse for food, so I got close. at the too close point it gave me quite a look, and I backed off.

, originally uploaded by allen_bramhall.

, originally uploaded by allen_bramhall.

, originally uploaded by allen_bramhall.

Lowell canal

Lowell canal, originally uploaded by allen_bramhall.

Erin's spring formal last night, an effort to give homeschoolers a promish event. Erin was buffed up in his suit, looked great. he has a properly matched tie but chose to where one of mine, derived from a painting by Henri Rousseau. of course he couldn't possibly button the top button for fear of asphyxiation. no age restriction really to this event, as befits homeschooling philosophy, so it wasn't so valedictory as I imagine (never having prommed) most proms are. the parents seemed generally giddier than the kids. in essence the parents put the show on, cooking and decorating and what not. the theme was Mexican, which I didn't get until I realized that it was Cinco de Mayo. anyone ever hear the Coronas radio ad with the jingle that proclaimed "it's the drinko of Cinco de Mayo"? man, you've got to have a finger on the sensitive button to limn lines like that. the dj was playing fairly drippy Mexican music. not likely to inspire. we left before much blending began, and the dj did turn on the real music eventually. one boy wore a t-shirt and had his tie on backwards. another wore a tux and vampire teeth. there was one girl, expressly boho in jeans and I think beret, and a few goth types. a cool, drama club boy with long hair, he played Mercutio in the recent production, wore a dark green jacket, navy velour bellbottoms, a deep green polo shirt and shades. we picked Erin up at midnight, with "Stairway to Heaven" properly loud. I used to think it was a mighty song, but it doesn't hold up so well. Jimmy Page sucks as a soloist, for all his other genius, and squeal me no Robert Plant, I'm afraid. I don't know how many of these kids would go to their proms were they in public school. many, I believe, would be marginalized in the public school hierarchy. think of Janis Joplin going back to her high school ten years later, as Janis Joplin. the most common question by public school parents is about how homeschoolers socialize. in fact, homeschooling parents spend their time finding ways to get their kids into social situations. and not just dumping them off to sports teams, clubs and other organized configurations, but much more varied possibilities. there are fewer compartments into which homeschoolers are put, nerd type, cheerleader type, jock type, victim type. I didn't have a gruesome time in public school, but I didn't flourish either. in the 7 years in which Erin has been in my life I have been able to reexamine the experience. my last 2 years of high school, I was a serious if not adept writer, yet I had no sense that what I did was anything but extracurricular. the school's literary journal was for those who joined in. it was a club, and those imitative scrids that were published were part of a potlatch economy. it demands a step back to see the burden of the social complex on public school students, how so much of the school experience is about normalizing kids. well, I've orated enough. Erin's a unique, wonderful young man. we should honour the idiosyncrasies not try to erase them, which I believe is what homeschooling aims at.

I enjoy Kasey Mohammad's movie encapsulations, especially lately an apparent attempt to review the entire Hammer Films oeuvre. remember when these were on every saturday afternoon, and you chose to pass them by and watch or do something worthwhile instead? I haven't seen one of them in at least half a gazillion years but now I yearn. what these films offer, and a lot of films likewise, is how the movie experience as viewer's receive it is nothing like what the filmmakers intended. where the film is supposed to be terrifying, you're laughing, where it's supposed to be lovely, you're creeped out. author function, author function. you, as a viewer, feel a release in these movies, you're untethered. you're clearly part of the generative process. whereas in poetry, don't we feel constricted as we read? the tactics by which poets try to waylay the interpretative imperative, I mean all the processes of disengagement (from) that have arisen in the this 'modern' era, to release poetry into its own world and not some critical containment, these tactics are essential in the fight. a pall of complacency hangs over poetry. it's not just academic-sclerosis, the freezing of poetry into controlled intellectual dollops, it's also emotional-sclerosis, in which poetry is seen as an outlet for emotion, and other sclerotic events as well. whereas movies can bust a move on us, or we on them. I think Citizen Kane is the corniest movie around but even in that corniness there's some power or effect that's close to the door of transcendence. I don't know what to do about poetry except open myself up to weirdness and dismay. I mean that's the ticket, rather than remain guarded or controlled. so I take these Hammer film reviews by Kasey seriously, as visions of poetry unbound. go ahead and laugh.

Erin's birthday yesterday, the big One Eight. he was eleven when Beth and I married. seems like yesterday, yet so much has passed in our lives, the three of us. I guess I don't have the words right now to speak further. we will have a party for Erin next week. he goes to a Spring Formal tonight, homeschoolers en masse. yesterday, well, we made our way to Barnes & Noble, the default place to go. for some reason, I looked avidly at the leather bound journals. I used to think such were la-de-dah, and preferred to stick with spiral bound notebooks for my limning needs. Beth got me interested in using bound journals, which I do occasionally now. one's writing changes with milieu, so to speak. I noted that Alan Davies carried a small yellow lined notepad, which, personally, I would avoid for the pages being easily detachable. but that could be an advantage. do you have funny little ways? I hate taking pages out of a spiral notebook. like it matters. but someone asks, can I have a piece of paper and I'm holding a notebook, and I'm like, er. honestly. so those journals with the wrap around leather flap and the leather tie thing seem so cool. but in sooth such notebooks are no more handy than, so I gave the temptation a pass. B&N seems like a wise and knowing place, as you scan about. quite a large display, and handy, of books on poker, for example. finger on the cultural pulse. check out the eye-popping displays and you can see where we stand. a friend of mine long ago remarked about The Gong Show that it gave us a comprehensive view of ourselves. so it's poker, and how to cook Cajun, and pilates, etc. okay, I find this fascinating. I was quite tempted by a book on gladiators. I mean, that's the weird part of history. I saw a finely wrought book about a mountain climber who, a blurbist wrote, made the most elegant climb of Everest. I don't even fathom what that means. it was an expensively produced book aimed, I wot, at a particular audience. I'm fascinated by Everest but there's a point past which I don't want to go, armchair traveler-wise. the poetry section remains dull. I should be tempted by the David Shapiro selected but it was a hardback with that kind of pre-emptive brusqueness that larger poetry publishers inveigh upon their books. it's a dust-attracting quality that puts me off. what????? I mean the smell of poetry books at the library, where they moulder unread. this has nothing to do with Shapiro, who I've hardly read. and yet, maybe it does. maybe I want my poetry books to be crappy editions, that I can scribble in, that don't have 2" margins, that... okay, I'm raving. I saw a book by Harryette Mullen, who people hold in higher regard than I do, I guess. I find her work ordinary, which, I know, is harsh. every poetry book at B&N looks tired, or nearly so. UCal came out with a paperback edition of Berrigan's collected, which, honestly, looks more attractive to me than the luscious hardback. it's smaller, handier and just seems more right. that's sort of what I mean about the Shapiro. B&N has a lot of manga but displays them wretchedly. they only show the spines, which are crowded and hard to read, so it's difficult to see what's what. I hate how you had ought to buy all 10 of the series, for just $99.99. I did see one 'starring' Avril Lavigne, who is described as a 'rebel rocker'. I don't think so but you may disagree. Beth found the graphic novel version of 300. it just lacked the splendid ridiculousness of the movie. the bloodletting, and falling into space and Rupaul as Xerxes: all that is much more visceral and effective in the movie. anyway, Erin something D&D, Beth some gifts plus a book on religion and a Terry Pratchett that somehow she'd missed and me nuthin'. we ate out at the cheap Italian restaurant in town. this restaurant supplies the center of town with the exquisite smell of garlic, tho that garlic doesn't seem to show up in any dishes. the place is always packed. we arranged Happy Birthday to be sung by the waitresses when dessert came. drove around after dinner. headed dreictly towards the radiant orb. what, are you stepping westward? into the New England countryside. some horsy towns, some factory owns. I love New England's factories, set by rivers. most are no longer factories but condos or otherwise used. busy little towns. and for garden artistry, just plant daffodils. pests don't mess with daffodil, and they flourish. yesterday, it seems, the season popped. verdure starting in the trees, blossoms, and bonanza of bulbs a-bloom. tis fine. drove past the hospital where my grandmother died 30 years agone. I remember the nearby apple orchards blooming at the time. I remember, too, several trips to her place to deal with her effects. on one of these trips there was the young Paul Tsongas on the campaign trail. him and another person walking along the road, chatting up whoever would meet with them. and on the way back, there they were, still plodding on, coats off on a warm spring day. Congress, Senate, a feint at the presidency, now the Tsongas Center in Lowell, as memory. anyway, the scraggly and other virtues of apple trees make them my favourite. if I must choose. the Concord River, spread very wide, looked lovely in the gloaming. then home to the nuclear dog, cat and fish.

I take my role as Boston Poet Laureate seriously, which is why I peer so carefully into the mailbox for the free books. when I say seriously, I mean I know there will be poets coming after me, aiming to kill me so that they may take my laurel crown (which, free advice, you hadn't ought to wear to bed). so with that elegant preamble, it behooves me to note that there seems to be a recent photo of the young Elizabeth Browning on Nada Gordon's blog (the cover to Foreignn Bodie). she's also correct to cite Lanny Quarles as Laureate of Comment Boxes, comments from Mars in the bestest sense. I have Folly (Roof 2007), and it is lovely and varied and deserving of far more time than I can manage it or any reading now. I think Ive said this before, but the books by known flarfists that I've read are less easily definable (prone to cubby hole) than the critico-chattery crowd might think. and let me just advert Henry Gould's publishing project. admittedly I down't own all of his book, but I have bought some and recommend all. it's a blow against empire, the publishing claque. a topic the BPL can get growly about.

In The Know: Do You Remember Life Before The Segway?

I guess I'm a nostalgia guy, I was much touched

in the interest of self interest, but then, any self-promotion on my part redounds to the office of Boston Poet Laureate, and thus to Poetry in general, here's one eprson who gets it. we didn't just have a beer together, he bought. certainly I should expect free books in recompense for my being Boston Poet Laureate, but Robert Graves notes in The White Goddess that the traditional stipend for a poet was sherry or sack. sounds good, but I will by no means turn my nose up at a rum and umbrella concoction, should that be what you wish to reward me with, or even a foofy whipcreamy thing from Starbucks. not forgetting the free books. anyway, David's blog is a fun read. aside from his basebally one, he has a quirkier one: Werner Herz blog.

as Boston Poet Laureate I went to the cast party for the Shakespeare productions by our homeschool cooperative. to be honest, I went incognito. can't always be attracting hordes of people who want to meet the BPL, you know, the scene phonies, foets, ambitious power couples of poetry and the like. we showed up as the final production wound down, then helped clean the place up for its normal usage. the cast party happened in a house in the hinterlands. everyone was supplied with Google-inspired directions. about a mile down the road we saw a road that wasn't where Google believed it should be. staunchly, we followed Google's advice. we all know that Google and Mapquest make up street names and distances, and the whole online map industry has been arranged to a fare-thee-well by the big oil cartels. thus we seemed to be getting lost. so we're feeling a desperate, pay-at-the-pump lostness, when lo, up ahead, a bunch of cars parked by the road. we'd found companions in our quest. it added up to 8 cars gathered at the spot. a leadership type was on the phone, and also had the advice of an off duty policeman who'd happened by. steeled by clearer information, and the knowledge that we probably wouldn't need to eat our dead, the convoy moved on. rather humourously, we soon passed the former site of the homeschool cooperative. which, you know, could have been used as a landmark. it was just a few miles and 2 turns from there. the party consisted of just about 100 people. there was a piano, an organ and a drum set that were played most of the night, and a centrally-located pool table that maintained a crowd of avid players. the noise level, I'm trying to say, was considerable. I did speak with Juliet, the one I saw perform, because she noted in the scorecard that she does morris dancing. her voice is high and soft such that it seems inadequate for stagework but she manages to project and enunciate onstage. very talented. eventually we left for home, and found it, no prob.

like Napoleon snatching the crown of the Holy Roman Empire, I rather precipitously grabbed the mantle of Boston Poet Laureate. I mean I'm like, what should a poet laureate of anywhere do, and more specifically the Boston one? worth a few thinks. I'm pretty sure I should get lots of free books, poetry ones, I suppose, tho I'm open to most anything. and I guess I'll promote poetry or whatever. I mean hey, poetry's great!!! anyway, if you got any ideas what I, as your Boston Poet Laureate, should do, in terms of being Boston Poet Laureate and all, send them to me, along with the free books, of course. I'm here to serve.

got a goodly chance to read Tom Beckett's books yestreen. Erin had to arrive early and while he and Beth were putting together costume and makeup, Allen was left with his book. it appears Tom collected chaps together, at any rate the sections are thematic and weave together over all. one notes a doggedness in the work, effort in the sense of concentration. which carries several applicable senses. Tom boils his work down, or pares it. it is rarely discursive or expansive. the 1st series of poems centres on a conceit of the zombie. the poems essentially define zombie, this idea belonging to Tom. the effect of reading the many poems about zombie produces a wider area of concern. wider, that is, than one expects as one begins to read. the sexuality that Tom manifests arises as an active force on language, not simply a bodily function. and of the imagination, I should add. what seem like observant dollops expand into a much wider territory. so zombie begins as an idea, a way to start a poem, a conceit, but the iterations and Tom's unblinking gaze push thru the boundaries of clauses into a much larger thing, made thing. thus the poem is in fact the series, and as I read, I will see that the series all, together, make a poem. Tom's interviews seem so perfectly a companion volume that I should always carry them together. the interviews, not all done by Tom, stay on message as regards poetry and process. the book makes the translation from online to print because it has life as a handbook. what is a handbook? one to carry with. inveterate dog walker here, so I like to have books that can be consulted in moments. to touch that energy. Olson's grandest implement for me was and remains the energy transfer. I feel the same sort of heat in these interviews. I get ideas how others have proceeded, thus maybe how I can. I reiterate that a writing class could do worse than use this book as a tool for discussion if not inspiration. so there are my beginnings with Tom Beckett's two wonderful new books. I hope you try your own path.

saw Erin's 2nd performance of Shakespeare. I reiterate that glitches do not mar a performance. if someone loses a line, or some miscue occurs, it is part of what theatre is. there's no cut, take 2, and we should accept that. at one point the lights went on while 2 of the crew were onstage. it was when Juliet lay dead. it looked like the crew members had been teleported in, so it drew a laugh. one tune played thru out the performance is called "Beginning of the World", a bright little dance number. I think I managed to identify Juliet and Montague as sisters, but the scorecard clearly indicates otherwise. I'm still at the stage with the play where I fumble with who's a Montague and who a Capulet. not that I mind missing having read the play in HS. I believe I read Merchant of Venice in school, and saw the Marlon Brando version of J Caesar, the rest I read/saw on my own. I mean the rest of the 15 or so plays that I know. I almost got R&J out last night, but it would only have been an item upon which to dream. Juliet the actress fulfilled the youthful forlorn tragic dynamism, the seriousness of her adolescent terms. she always gave her lines dynamics, which I think is a considerable feat. the other players didn't really touch her in terms of music and ability to speak her lines with such naturalness. props to Erin, who took care to read his lines with a slow, ominous pace, a slow burn at times. one doesn't want him portrayed as Snidely Whiplash, because the weight of the tragedy should be spread over all. a person I no more than nod to made a point of coming to me and saying how good Erin was, and specifically noting Erin's pacing. I can barely watch Erin, for fear of glitch or miscue, which perhaps puts the lie to my earlier assertion. yet I needn't worry, if I just allowed brain to lead the way. I think the humour in Shakespeare's plays is in some sense easier to play, tho suggesting ease is a disservice. even tho the japing doesn't always makes sense, words used oddly to current ears, the players catch the rhythm and enjoy the times of flourish. whereas the tragic scenes can be pretty overwhelming, the poetry hardly willing to let a human voice peep thru. gotta read the full text now.

the new Boston Poet Laureate approves

just received, with much excitement, 2 books by Tom Beckett:
Unprotected Text (Meritage 2006 and Eileen Tabio), and
E-X-C-H-A-N-G-E-V-A-L-U-E-S (Otoliths 2005, 2006, 2007 and Mark Young).

double huzza for all involved, and primarily for Tom.

Tom's publication from the 80s, The Difficulties, was my main school for coming to grips with Language poetry. exchangevalues essentially carries on that work, tho less strictly with the L-word as contemporary in general. I have of course read the blog from which these interviews by Tom and others were taken. an absolutely useful text to read again and again. just to up the ante, work by those interviewed has been included. I can see this book being an excellent teaching tool, because points of consideration and confrontation arise on every page. more volumes from the project are in store, so spread the word.

Tom's work as editor has somewhat overshadowed the poetic oeuvre that Tom has quietly built. in this sense I'm reminded of George Butterick, whose Collected Poems is a quirky unexpected delight. I have several of Tom's little publications and look forward to reading his work en masse in perfect bound splendour (including a bold orange cover). in my quick scan I see hay(na)ku, prose, short lines, long ones. more to be said when more has been read. let me just enjoy the satisfied glow of 2 new publications by worthy Tom (any relation to our hero Josh?) Beckett.

New! Boston Poet Laureate

the Boston Poet Laureate issue has hung over the heads of good Bostonians for long enough. it'll distract us from Manny being Manny and Dice K, so in the interest of keeping the peace, and meanwhile scoring a well-earned career plum, I've grabbed the title. if you have any questions for the Boston Poet Laureate, or just wish to stand in my glow, please write me.

saw the production of Romeo and Juliet in which Erin played Tybalt. I'd never read the play, nor scene a production, but of course, one absorbs it. well, I read the manga yesterday, which used Shakespeare's words, tho not all of them. bowdlerizing Shakespeare is a common enough pastime. this is the 4th Shakespeare production by our homeschool cooperative, 1st for Erin. these productions go the mile as far as production values. a lot of work goes into costumes. I think it is excessive except that it gives the kids a chance to dress up. Erin's entrance was great. he's so big and his costume was angry red and he was all bold and ragey. the audience went whoop. swordplay with what are officially called boffers. the age range of the players is 6-17. some of the younger ones are grinning and staring at the audience. the audience is almost entirely parental, even tho there's a drive to post notices everywhere. if one likes theatre, one had ought to scope out such productions even lacking a child in it. just as you can see interesting sports events on the high school, little league and such level. I mean, it gives you a sense of proportion to see these events in these more intimate venues, and the occasional amaze when someone exceeds your expectations. Juliet in this production was remarkably good. a 13 year old girl, she gave great expression to her lines, and respected the music too. and without apparent effort. I'm amazed that these kids remember their lines. to really inhabit them is bonus. Romeo was also played by a 13 year old. his mother directed, and his 3 younger brothers and his older sister also had minor roles. he and his sister were in Mock Trial with Erin. his sister is very good in theatre and Mock Trial. the boy seems a little hyper active, so it seems like a feat to play Romeo. which he did quite well. an issue arose before production about whether R&J were appropriate for younger kids. there were issues even with the kissing, which in sooth were ever so chaste. as Beth noted, their farewell kissing after their newlywed night was quick on the order of see ya. some but not all the dirty bits were removed. as I said, Bowdler's legacy lives. the swordplay went on nicely and Erin died dramatically. Juliet's older sister played Capulet and was also very good. at Paris' death, Romeo dragged him from the byre. in doing so Paris' head cracked against the byre. Romeo tried to lower Paris' head to the floor but released early, so thok as cranium hit cement. Romeo's last kiss of Juliet was done with his butt facing the audience, something the director ought to rectify. not to hang on those sorts of things, but I think that's part of theatre that one can embrace. just as with low budget movies, as opposed to slick, adipose high budget productions. the curtain call had a neat touch. Mercutio and whatsisname step out then suddenly turn, draw swords and Erin burst thru the curtain with his sword drawn. I repeat, at 6'5" with hat and bold panache, and magenta red costume, he made a statement. Erin has one more performance this week. there are two different casts, and 4 performances total. I congratulated one boy I knew and asked him if he had fun. definitely he said no. Mercutio had a better role. which is true, that looked like fun.

Day 2, Anime Boston. this time Beth joined us. Erin rushed in to see the Anime Music Awards, in which people cut up anime, add music and make their own cinematic event. Beth and I didn't really do much, walked round, drank coffee, and watched people. it's a funny invasion as it occurs in the hotel and the mall as well as the conference centre. in real life, that is. mother may not know that some of these costumes are being worn publicly. the rules slide too. seeing guys without shirts at the food court is sort of edgy in its way. and a couple going barefoot. one more or less bikini-clad female wore nose cone bra. and much weaponry was lugged about. that part makes me leery. not to go all sociological. these ridiculous weapons of vanquishment seem to fulfill something not wholly integrated or read critically. but I'm an old fart so take these statements with that in mind. from a practical standpoint, I'd not want to carry a weapon, even the smaller ones, around with me all day. as you can see from the few pictures I took, people were willing to go lengths for a great effect, comfort and practicality be damned. that royal personage below, that meant some self-sacrifice, I wot. saw him and his train thru out the con, highly visible and centre of attentiony. I did ask one person if I could take a picture. she had just posed for someone and I asked her to maintain it. attitude + attitude. surely all practice their poses before a mirror. the best picture I didn't get to take was of an angel taking the escalator down. I got bumped by the wings of another angel, which were being carried by a maternal unit. a presumably younger child sported an enormous cartoonish head of some character. the anonymity I think allowed the child to flourish (when I say child, I'm guessing 12 or so, judging only by height). waving to people and interacting without speaking. this character ran over to another anonymous one, the 2nd one being what looked to be an asparagus stalk, and using broad gestures communicated a little improv skit. I also saw a guy in character see someone in another group dressed as a character from the same anime from which he came. he loudly and dramatically confronted her about how she ruined his life and a number of other plot points. one of her friends said, the romance would never have worked, she's a lesbian. at which she kicked at him violently, almost to make me think offended. so you see the social context of this. the worst part of it all was the game room. endlessly churning loud music, and the embrace of testosterone. to my uncritical eye the games all look the same, flashing and jumping and exploding. my god, we've taken basic hunter/gatherer instincts, removed them from the football field and placed them in comfy chairs. there was cosplay ballroom dancing on view. funny to see all these characters, with their weapons, in courtly pairs. I guess I should just leave it at that. I got several manga, including Romeo and Juliet. updated to modern Tokyo, yakuza and all that. Erin performs in the very play tonight, part of our homeschool cooperative's production. Tybalt is a role that Erin savours because 1) swordplay; 2) few lines; 3)deathscene. the image of Tybalt in the manga presents this slender shirtless modern samurai with tattoo on his shoulder. and so it goes.

, originally uploaded by allen_bramhall.

bonjour M. Godzilla

bonjour M. Godzilla, originally uploaded by allen_bramhall.

, originally uploaded by allen_bramhall.

day one of Anime Boston yesterday. Erin and I were joined by his friend Dan. at Alewife Station had my 1st experience of the new Charlie system. named for the song by ach I forget the same of the old folk group, about a guy who gets lost in the Boston subway. should mench that yesterday was the 1st sunny and dry day for a week or more. the new system entails buying tickets from machines. I tried and it didn't work. because of the system's newness, a T employee is assigned to explain. she said that that bank of machines doesn't always take credit cards. I moved to the other side. at which point Dan noticed that I was inserting my card upside down. when I did things right, I got my ticket. one step closer to the Jetsons. a group of young women were obviously heading towards the convention. one wore a deep green (green is the new green this year) gown, perhaps Japanese inspired. another looked Carnaby St with a short skirt, black and green striped tights and a kicky short hairstyle. there was also a guy in mini skirt and long blonde wig. he looked cold. in the sun, springtime, but without, not quite. Erin and Dan conversed with several people who were convention bound. one had been to all five of the events, which has grown steadily. Erin had pre-registered him and me months ago but Dan hadn't. we had to separate into different lines. literally lines, tape in the pattern of an oxen-ploughed field (the way the ancient Greeks read back and forth). took about 30 minutes to get thru. for my name tag I said I wanted the words Simple Theory, title of my 1st book and a phrase I like. what came out, omigosh, was Simple Fairy. which works well enough in the circs, I wot. Dan got to wait for more than an hour to get his tag. Erin and I had a quick lunch then stayed with Dan. the convention gall is contiguous and attached to a hotel and a mall, so the dress up of the convention goers was public indeed. I had my camera but didn't take a lot of pix of the dress up, called cosplay. I don't like posed shots, and feel funny surreptitiously clicking. people do ask to take pictures, at which most of the people enact well-practiced poses. it's cute, really. Dan and Erin went off on their own so gramps was able to wander. after a circuit, I went to the manga reading room. it was a ballroom in which a library of graphic novels were loaned out. this was an oddly satisfying pleasure. it was quiet, for one. and just winding yourself around an adventure seemed delicious. there were a few bean bag chairs, one of which I cornered, or you could lay on the floor or sit at a table. I read a decent scifi. according to plan, Erin forgot his cellphone. I periodically went parental and checked in on them via Dan's phone. a beautiful courtyard that I spent considerable time in last year was unavailable to the public as yet. I talked on the phone with Beth outside the foodcourt, doing my best to get pictures of the pigeons who thought that I was a pigeon, e'en tho I had no food with me. we met briefly for some food intake mid afternoon. I read another manga, watched an anime, wandered. when I connected with the boys again, I found that Erin had bought himself a pair of cat's ears and tail, which he wore. frabjous day, all around. no doubt details will assert themselves eventually.

not a poetry weekend this time around, it is Anime Boston. Erin and I go in with a friend of his today, I don't know what else the ensuing days. camera, iPod, notebook: not so much that I'll get bored but that all this is around and about. I'll want to transmute, and a bit I'll want to chill. Erin will be in, and all around. must remember cell phone, too.

Real Life, Inc.

Beth and I were leaving the medical building over to the hospital and saw before us a car on the walkway up to the door. the car had to have driven up an unpaved embankment, an oddity. as we came close, a woman on the passenger side spoke to us. she wanted to know if this was the right entrance. I tried to explain that the proper entrance was below on the other side of the building, where there's a drive up entrance. she said that her husband had rushed off to the bathroom, he had a colostomy. he was 85. herself, she was there for tests. she has cancer. she started to get upset. why did he drive up the embankment, she asked. she needed a wheelchair to get about. this was the 3rd time the cancer had appeared. Beth calmed her by saying lymphoma can be beaten. the woman responded to the sympathy. we determined that I should fetch a wheelchair and the woman could get to the lower level via elevator. as I rushed off, I met the man coming back. I'd held the door for him when we were leaving. he'd found out where he was supposed to go. so they would drive down to the proper entrance. he was concerned about getting down the embankment, as there wasn't a lot of turn space and he was afraid he'd hit something. Beth and I coached him back and into the sharp turn so that he could drive down. as he was doing this a nurse rushed up to say that the particular lab may not be open and that they should go across the street to another building. a bit after that another nurse had something stupid to say to Beth to which Beth politely answered go away. it was all just heartless squawking for two overwhelmed and worried people. luckily Beth and I were able to help. I mean, better us than someone saying you can't park there. the relief they felt was palpable if perhaps only short-lived. when they finally drove off I had a burst of tears. imagine how scary their lives are. when you think of Western medicine, does sympathy or empathy come to mind? of course not. it's a machine that performs these medicinal services. assuming these services are efficacious--and it's a real debate how efficacious chemo, for instance, is--to what degree does the medical profession serve the emotional needs of the patient, and of the patient's loved ones? it's not just that you go thru these stressful procedures like chemo (the woman lamented that she'd be losing her hair again), but that you do so in such a heartless (that word again) environment. however nice drs, nurses and tech folk might be, you are still just one more item in a healthcare assembly line (let's don't even get into the matter of insurance). that couple was so defenseless. you wish there were children to help them in their need. now I have to bring this to writing and poetry. because you can think of writing, or art generally, as a luxury. in a world of these sadnesses, what does a POEM do? the simple answer is that it does what it can. we can honour a poem for being a thing, a human made thing, that reacquaints us with language's intensity. poems, and the their language, are relievingly real in that sense. we can see words presented as important virtues between and within us. isn't it tiresome to the point of something terribly worse to hear worry about ambitious poets, foetry, scene phonies, and all such minor human frailties? a view of poetry as something so gruel-like and dim, a joust of unevaluated responses. demeaning arguments of envy and powerless invective are just the lazy stink of poetry held too close to our natural weakness, without comprehension of the limits involved. part of me writes poems to be famous, to be loved, to be respected, to say something: of course I'm not perfect. I honour most, however, that part of me that doesn't hold those aspects so tightly, that finds a poem (mine or someone's), and respects its moment. simply so.

in the interest of offering resource beyond my sterling opinion, the site Andrea Brady mentioned (lots of British authors) is Archive of the Now, not of the Unknown, as I misremembered it (Archive of the Unknown sounds like a Dead Can Dance song). further, Brady read this piece at the reading. this version includes notes.

I'm so excited that Days Poem is alive. during its composition, I didn't know if it would end. when it did, I didn't see a hopeful situation for getting its 800+ ms pages published. both Jack Kimball and Lewis Lacook published small portions at their respective online enterprises, and I periodically sent bits to the Wryting list. I pretty much sat on it otherwise. I would bring it up occasionally, more to remind myself of the accomplishment than to "sell' it. the hat is off to Eileen for being open to a work that in its 2 volume published form registers nearly 1000 pages. that says commitment. I shouldn't harp on its size because I think the poem dances lightly despite its bulk. it pleases me that Erin performed the cover design. and at a key point when techno help was needed, Shanna Compton cheerfully supplied it. so a hat off each to Erin and Shanna. I hope those who read it enjoy it.

MERITAGE PRESS ANNOUNCEMENT

A Two-Volume Poetry Collection by Allen Bramhall:

DAYS POEM, Vol. I
494 pages
ISBN: 978-0-9709-1798-0
Price: $28.00

DAYS POEM, Vol. II
441 pages
ISBN: 978-0-9709-1799-7
Price: $28.00

Meritage Press (www.meritagepress.com) is delighted to announce a PRE-RELEASE SPECIAL OFFER for a unique and ambitious two-volume collection by Allen Bramhall: DAYS POEM. Mr. Bramhall describes his project with:

"Begun casually, the writing of Days Poem quickly grew into a daily necessity to write, even to plug onward. In this way, it resembles a journal or novel, tho it claims neither genre as its own. It started with an idea of writing large and embracing extent. It settled (and unsettled) itself within the compelling philosophical argument that it is what it is. The thrill of relentlessness and perseverance pushed it until, you know, it came to an end. As the writer of these pages, I wanted to play with hobos, and bears, and Tarzan & Jane, and Walden Pond, and all the words in between. I wanted a little amazement in every day."


BIO: Allen Bramhall was born by the banks of the Concord River in 1952 and has lived in Massachusetts ever since. He was educated at Franconia College and Lesley University, and in non-academic places as well. / Simple Theory / (Potes & Poets Press) was his first book. He maintains a blog called Tributary, and a life with Beth and Erin.

To celebrate the release of Days Poem, Meritage Press is pleased to offer the following PRE-RELEASE OFFER:

To order a single volume, a 20% discount and free shipping/handling (about a $3.00 value) for a single-volume price of $22.40

To order both volumes, a 25% discount and free shipping handling for a 2-volume price of $42.00

This offer will be good through May 31, 2007...and is expected to be the least expensive rate for purchasing the book(s). Please send checks made out to "Meritage Press" and mail to

Eileen Tabios
Meritage Press
256 North Fork Crystal Springs Rd.
St. Helena, CA 94574

This offer is good throughout the United States; Meritage Press will take international orders but will have to adjust shipping/handling costs. If you wish to place an international order, or have any other queries, please email MeritagePress@aol.com

Beyond the expiry of this PRE-RELEASE OFFER, Days Poem will be available through the publisher (email MeritagePress@aol.com) or you can order through Meritage Press' Lulu account at:

Days Poem, Vol 1: http://www.lulu.com/content/748585

Days Poem, Vol 2: http://www.lulu.com/content/748595


FOR MORE INFO: MeritagePress@aol.com

went to a poetry reading of Jordan Davis and William Corbett this evening at the Plough and Stars. the reading occurred sans Jordan Davis, who apparently got rained out, presumably like our Red Sox. I smell controversy: this is the 2nd flarf poet this year who failed to show at the last minute. at least I've seen Jordan read 3 times before. Corbett I saw at Olson Now last may, where he was emcee. anyway, I gather the weather elsewhere is as advertised. hereabouts it is still merely intimation of Weather Channel excitement. Corbett mentioned seeing Jim Cantoro of TWC sending in a report from Gloucester, Cantoro being a harbinger of meteorological mayhem. Sean Cole was in the house with headset and microphone, absorbing the sounds for WBUR. Corbett began by reading "Toast" from Jordan Davis' Million Poems (Faux Press), a longish New Yorkish poem. he followed that with a Lowell poem and one by Wieners. the Lowell poem was surprisingly effective. I say surprising because I've never really enjoyed (cottoned to) Lowell. but with Corbett's reading, I got a nice feel for Lowell's writerliness, that he (Lowell) strove with his work, wrangled with and rewrote it. Corbett read everything with an easy almost glib freshness that was easy to take. I hardly heard the Wieners poem because I got to thinking of a wonderful one that my friend Michael read to me, from an I believe out of print Wieners book. that poem was a letter from Gerald Ford to Wieners, which was hilarious and also seemed to be a canny extension of Spicer/Lorca. Corbett spoke of having Del Ray Cross in one of his classes. Cross, according to Corbett, would go to the MIT library and read everything, as if everyone did that. I like that innocent sense of finding his own way. Corbett's own poems were brisk and discursive. shall I mention who I recognized in the audience? Michael Franco, Mike County, Michael Carr and Joe Torra. I don't have a scorecard so I might have missed some. Corbett mentioned the gruesome fact of 600 copies of James Schuyler's letters, that Corbett edited, being pulped. those letters are terrific so it's sad that they found no home. I m earnest to get to more readings than I have. poetry does happen in this city, it's not all in New York.

found 2 reports on CR readings at other venues, here and here. different, useful views. the 2nd one, by Julia (dunno her), is interesting because she actually gets what's going on, yet feels confused and resistant natheless. I mean, she acknowledges certain pleasures but allows her dismay of confusion (cue Negative Capability) to taint the experience. I often have that same dismay, but have learned to say it's okay. anyway, you're not supposed to like everything, but you can accept the potential validity of different means.

consulting my notes for the reading friday but I don't take many being as the choice is take notes or listen to the poets. 1st, my Bark Books = Barque Press, run by Brady and Sutherland. note that Quid, published by Barque, can be read in pdf, older issues leastwise. Sutherland, in his introduction, referred to "tumescent invading China". he also used the phrase "romantic gargling". Brady mentioned a website that she has called Archive of the Unknown, but I can't find it. the reason for this may be that 1) I mistranscribed the name, 2) she wasn't talking about an online site, 3) whatever. Chris Good was the missing poet. I wanted to ask Manson if his reading of Good's poem replicated Good's style but when the opportunity arose I determined it was a vapid question and shied from an encounter. I don't think his language is excessively slangy or ensconced in dialect but I did flash on Burns and Clare (when is English not English?). Brady and Sutherland are clearly academics, a term I use here descriptively not judgmentally, whereas Manson is much less so. a stout and stocky fellow, balding, he wore a black t-shirt with a Chinese character on it and was pretty unprepossessing until he began reading. a cheerfully inquisitive Brit (I am aware that this distinction of their foreignness that I make sounds like I'm about to intone a phrase like nappy-headed), taking another 5 minutes to ask a question, noted Manson's more direct approach than Sutherland, to which Manson replied: "don't under-estimate the obscurity of my writing". Manson and Sutherland were placed in the same Venn circle on the diagram that came with the Chicago Review, a circle that they shared with J H Prynne. I don't recall how that circle was designated. Brady was left out of the diagram. not the only worthy who missed the cut.

in describing the reading last night, I didn't mean to shortchange the readers. I felt like I should wear a smoking jacket and drink brandy from a snifter in that room. except for some sonic interference by vacuum cleaners, tho, the room was a good place to hear poetry read; acoustics were good. it is rather depressing how little of British, as well as Canadian, poetry that I know. maybe I didn't make it clear that the Chicago Review presented British poetry as a special focus, hence this reading. included in the journal was a diagram of the various groups that make up British poetry, according to Andrew Duncan. the poets themselves lambasted this preposterous sorting of names into "logical" aesthetic groupings. various logics, like the Cambridge School (being, I assume, poets associated with that institution), neo-objectivist, feminist. it's all pretty loopy and way too simplified. where would you situate a neo-objectivist feminist from Cambridge, and what have you got when you do? the 3 poets who read were diverse enough aesthetically. I would say all three are literary in approach, if that means anything. I think I mean a reliance on literary context, which may be a way of saying that they all three have read widely and include that reading at some level, consciously even, in their work. and I think that means an injection of formal scholarship in their education. thus the dense discussion that arose after the reading. the venue provided a weird quality to the event. the poets agitating language into new vibrations seemed at odds with the sanctified sprawling comfort of that fortress of fast learning.

bravely broached the environs of Harvard Yard, specifically just outside those defensible walls, for a reading by Keston Sutherland, Andrea Brady and Peter Manson. met friend Michael outside. inside, we met tone. the room was rawther spectacular. by rough estimate the ceilings were 907' high, daringly broaching the empyrean where crimson is forever. the walls were wood-paneled with carvings and omigawd. not forgetting mongo paintings of Teddy Roosevelt, a couple of former deans and a woman depicted with a book open on her lap and her hands flat on the pages that I have officially assumed without benefit of justification is Helen Keller. scattered about this room were comfy chairs and sofas. the lectern stood in front of a 7' tall fireplace, you could get a goodly number of witches into that thing. and there was off to a side a spread of beer, wine, cheese and brownies. gee, I want to go to more poetry readings, they're great. oh that reminds me, there were poets at the reading. the occasion was the latest issue of the Chicago Review, which featured the 3 poets along with another one who didn't make the trip. the 3 poets plus the 2 editors (Sam Ladkin and Robin Purves) of CR were at the 6th and last leg of their whirled tour. Ladkin, I think, led off with some introductory remarks then Manson stood up to read a lengthy poem by the missing Brit. rather than avail himself of the lectern he stood in front of it and paced back and forth as he read. he read in a punchy, wound up manner. I'll admit that I had a little trouble with his Glaswegian accent but at least he allowed me the chance to use the word Glaswegian. I'm hoping Glaswegian means of Glasgow. next was Keston Sutherland. he read a 12 page piece from the CR in its entirety, a 30 minute tour-de-force. I scribbled some notes but am not consulting them right now. the piece consisted of 3 parts, a rollicking poem, a story of sorts and a play. it was cunningly disjunctive, especially the first part. all 3 readers were uncommonly practiced. Sutherland sped up and slowed down according to the score. many threads twisted together. I think it would have been best had I read it beforehand, or read along with him. the writing situates in popular culture, specifically our friend Fox News. there were, he announced beforehand, 2 love stories, one being a former lover and the other an imagined relationship with someone he chose (he didn't specify how) randomly, an Arthur Cheng from somewhere in China. I think you could say he inhabited Cheng, or some weird possibility. Sutherland is highly literate, which I think is synonymous with British. well wait a sec, he went to Harvard, 10 years agone. early on he said he has a recurring dream of walking around Harvard lost but unspeakably happy. he never looked at the audience but either kept his eyes on the text or looked at the walls above us. kind of an eccentric prof. he is a prof but I won't assume how eccentric. after he finished we were again given visitation rights to the spread, which included an array of books published by Bark Books. I forget which of the readers are involved with that press, Sutherland and Brady I think. next was Andrea Brady, preceded by the other editor's remarks. I have an old chap by her but I don't know her work well. I had the idea that she was British but in fact she was born in Philadelphia and attended Columbia, but then she went all limey and now teaches over there, maybe at Cambridge (the other one). she read less dramatically. I might describe Sutherland's work as high-toned literary antics. humourous and thoughtfully disjointed. in terms of dynamics, Brady provided a quieter beat. I found her work less pressed than Sutherland's, and the better for it. as I say, I needed to read Sutherland's to get the best of it. Brady's last piece centered on the events of Abu Ghraib. from all 3 poets you get some sense of being stuck with this shit that the US has left with the world. not to say the British government hasn't its hand in the pot, but the smelly winds bring the US to mind. Ivy-league bedtime is a bit early, I wot, because during her reading and Manson's, the sounds of industrial vacuum cleaners (or I should say, hoovers, pip pip) rang against the wood paneling, plush carpeting and, I'm sure, alabaster what not of the Barker Building. I didn't mention the audience, which consisted largely of grad students and people with British accents. Daniel Bouchard and Michael Carr were there, and about 25 others. and I should mench the fellow who entered noisily, carrying a bag. his pants seemed to have pictures on them. he lasted 5 or 10 minutes then noisily left. he was there long enough, that is, to enter my report. Manson finished the reading with more tightly wound snappy short pieces. he never looked up as he paced. Brady, I neglected to say, addressed the audience. I'm sure I missed felicities because of his accent, but I liked his intensity and rhythm. all 3 had humour in their work, which probably didn't play as well to American ears. Sutherland did get a guffaw with a line about someone who would wear black lipstick to a Joan Retallack reading. can't get enough Retallack jokes. after Manson there was some discussion. everyone spoke in paragraphs. these essays were a little hard to listen to, I'd rather read that sort of text blockade. which is not to say the discussion wasn't interesting, albeit, grad-studenty, just that it wasn't readily graspable in the context. the 9' sentences aren't made for my ears. an exodus toward a nearby bar ensued. even 30 somethings had to show legal IDs. sans such, Keston had to talk a good deal to convince the guard that he was born in 76. for some reason, I didn't need to prove I was born in 52. Michael and I got to talking with someone in the audience. he came with his sister because he went to high school with Brady. not a full time poetry aficionado but he was very enthusiastic and fun to talk to, and supportive enough to buy a bunch of books. we ended up standing in a crowd near the bar, awaiting a table. by the time we finally got our Guinness a table freed up. Michael and I had a full 5 minutes before public transportation's inviolable schedule sent us on our way.

a meme, a meme, a meme! and have you noticed that the observation of memes is itself a meme? anyway, a largely flarfist faction has been ordering Mike around. I love it. I think I've slipped the meme a bit but here anyway is some. I will keep going.

Mike, exercise the immediate onion.
Stop with the piano flap, Mike.
with your jelly simplified, be prepared, Mike, for more notebook clanking.
Don't be so sure of ontology when you're relaxed out of eggs, Mike.
Stick with the ham chore rhubarb step dance, Mike, if you can.
Mike, define kite with wax.
Mike, I really mean don't ever define kite with wax.
Mike, stress copter from along the river dumpster means damage bandy.
Mike, you should squawk curtains with those rich debs.

This prudish truck needs more wiring, Mike.
You take the table from the wrench and turn those little leftist green Hapsburgs, Mike.
Mike, you place the top slog on the lower embouchure, then flick the stew.
Mike, those almonds go in the nettle gust with the phone bank women.
Stuff sediment, Mike, in the tail gunner loam.

Place made acrimony under your seed pond with doofus, Mike.
Stop freaking bonkers next to marginal membrane players, Mike.
Mike, let go of that austere clutter in your nose hair favourite.
Ladle ink past the dojo, Mike, the squeamish need westerly.
Lick some bastion fluff in the meantime, Mike.
Make up your mime, Mike, those planets are charged.

a lovely web art piece by Joel Weishaus. largely textual but compelling visually. I like the fonts he uses, the use of graphics, and how hovering the cursor over certain words and phrases reveals more. this goes to the discussion of translating online work to print. a piece like this definitively utilizes the capabilities and possibilities of the net, despite its textual nature. reminds me that a poem isn't so easily defined, and that the limits we place are the limits we suffer. I'm not sure how they relate but Jack Kimball's divagations on Robert Kelley and blogging and such (here and here )come to my mind. something about unfreezing oneself artistically, something about confronting limits. Jack's unfinished in his thoughts, so I'm allowed likewise.

Bootstrap Productions is publishing a journal written by John Wieners. Michael Carr is editor of it. He had a copy of it, which he gave to Alan Davies after the reading. I didn't get to look at it or talk to him about it, but it sounds like an event. check out the poem 2007.

for some reason, I am on the Poetics list, so have been witnessing the bubbling conversation concerning the publication and immediate cancellation of the book derived from the Here Comes Everybody blog of Lance Phillips. I don't know if I would've opined on the matter except that Eileen Tabios thoughtfully does so. her compelling issue concerns the translation of an online publication into print. (it can go the other way, the online version of Grenier's Sentences (link to the right) being an example). personally I lost interest in the HCE blog after a while. the answers (to the same questions) began to blur. still, I thought of it as a resource, to consult when a poet's work or just name came along. one thing the print version obviously could not supply is links. and speaking practically, if the print version was to retain the photos used on the blog, I don't know if it did or not, the book would be more expensive. so I have my doubts about the success of the project. maybe, as Eileen suggests, there is some contextualization in the print version, but the interviews simply lack the meat that Tom Beckett's Exchangevalue interviews have, and Tom has added context, in the form of poems by the interviewees. my point isn't to dump on HCE; I am, like Eileen, interested in the translation from one medium to another. part of that translation is how to make the book happen in an economically viable way. the idea of a suit sounds ludicrous, but I have no idea what sort of communication went on between the disgruntled poets and the editors. lesson one should be that nothing good can ever happen in not getting permissions. the internet fosters a feeling of open source. for me, I kinda feel that if I put it online, it is open game: I recognize that boundaries online are viscous. I don't advocate or even condone the swiping but see it as ingrained. so a lack of editorial due diligence, matched with a rather excessive protection of rights by the disgruntled, combines to make an online brouhaha. boy, those are rare.

, originally uploaded by allen_bramhall.

the last 2 nights we watched Mystery Science Theatre 3000, Erin having procured a set of 4 from the library. I love the show. the 2 main robots are wonderful, the way they exist as characters. I must say, tho, sometimes I would like to see the movies without the overlay. they seem so enticing in how they envision a world like our own, only twisted into a pathology. the way 'bad' movies can exist in their ineptitude is a very compelling artistic argument. one movie was a rip off of the Beach Blanket movies, with Tommy Kirk as Frankie Avalon, and no one really specified as Annette. the movie was called Catalina Caper. I assume it was made because someone had a place on Catalina and wanted to write it off, so why not make a movie. it's a recipe movie, with an involved plot, 'comic relief', bikinis and youth music all in roughly correct amounts. the titular caper is half-baked, okay, and the sub-plot half-hearted. Little Richard appears, singing one song, which being an imitation Little Richard song that himself co-wrote. part of the patchwork process included him vocalizing his trademark woo-oo, he hadn't forgotten that element in the 10 minutes it took him to write the song. however modest his effort, his appearance betokened a possibility, somewhere, of directed energy and purpose. the movie's view of teen mating rituals (granted, all the teens in the movie were at least 25) may give you a sense of the 60s. the dance sequences, of which there were many, came across as lustreless Bollywood. that lck of lustre was so monumental as to be beguiling in its misconception. how does one distort the life energy into such cosmic stasis, I ask you? the jungle rhythms of the Twist, the Swim and the Frug, or whatever the hell, are rather delicate perceptions. as the MST folks noted, it was as white a movie as could be imagined. the other movie we saw was called Creeping Terror. it enjoyed a bit more budget than Plan 9 from Outer Space but much less verve. a spaceship crashed on earth and a creature crawls out to terrorize the countryside. the monster resembled one of those Chinese dragons that dance around in parades. except extremely abstract in design, a gallimaufry of spare bits of stuff. thru out the movie the thing would creep along and attack people. everyone freezes in place, screams and awaits the inevitable trip into the maw. as noted by out MST heroes, the actors actually crawl into the mouth of the monster, being as the monster, as equipped, couldn't make that happen. that enervation is a disturbing denial of basic instincts but that's the reality of this movie. it's a shabbily practiced movie, but in that shabbiness resides a world. replace monster with Republican administration, or racism, or global warming, or you name it, and it makes more sense. it's another movie in which the jungle rhythms of the Twist threaten almost to impose energy in the flaccidity of the Real World. the movie ends with some malarkey about the alien race (that sent the monsters) someday coming to say hi. both of these movies are mildly crazy, only vaguely bear the illusion of realism, yet I would take that craziness over the clear-headed value of the usual Oscar winner.

file under just so you know: of the last 18 visitors to this backwater site, 6 arrived because of a search on the term fisher cat, which I have mentioned 2 or 3 times on this blog. lesson: if you want to Sillimanize your blog to a greater audience, mention fisher cats (members of the marten family).

I've been poking at Candor by Alan Davies (not to look a gift horse in the mouth). it's from Roof Books, 1990 or 91. it integrates poetry with criticism. I had to ask him if he wrote it chronologically or if he shuffled. I like to peek under the hood and see the process. not that I understand what's under the hood, I just like to see the gears engaging, and all the other possible aspects of the metaphor in process. Duncan, as will be recalled, went chronological, twining his various threads, one might think, because of the living intersections. Jack Kimball's Post~Twyla includes some criticism as well. in that work, they seem to provide a different metric. and Jack has said that he did shuffle the pieces in the book. the critical matter in Candor seems (to me, anyway) to arise from the particular reading at the time, whether haphazard or assiduously planned. I'd even say that the two works are on opposite (but I wouldn't suggest opposing) ends of the same seesaw. which is perhaps a pointless remark given that I've read so little of Alan's book. the book leads off with a rollicking shout out to all of Alan's homeys, yes, language-centered rap. in one sense, it's a jokey feat, but in another, it is quite an impressive chunk of aural beat. and that's as far as I'll speak of the book at this time, just had to exclaim my 1st taste of the wonder.

check out these rubbings (I forget the word for this) by David-Baptiste Chirot. click the images to enlarge.

Jack Kimball writes up the 4 readings on sunday here. I've noted his reading reviews before, so it's okay that this time I was one of the readers. I agree with Jack that the day had convivial energy. one reading in a funky gallery, another in a funky bar, and the in betweens in which conversation flowed. that's a scene. Beth, who lived for a time in Vancouver, loved the poetry scene there. she said the reading at the Plough and Stars resembled every night in Vancouver, lots of energy and interest. we greatly enjoyed the weekend. I appreciate Jack's effort at connecting the scene, suggesting that Boston need not be balkanized. Boston is not a wasteland, insofar as lots of poetry events and poetry series occur. sometimes it seems like a wasted land, but I can name at least 3 very good Boston reading series, tho admittedly I haven't attended a lot. Beth and I felt guilty leaving Erin alone for much of the weekend. anyway, Jack's effort, which he takes seriously (he asks for copies of the reading material from readings, the better to write about the performances), has a positive impact on The Scene, here.

1st of all, prose is not an opposition to poetry. I'm not sure how to define either term, frankly. you got any guesses? poetry? it is perhaps involved in music/sound, rollicks with image, contours the imagination, and resists. prose? it is lattice work, structuring effort. poetry is the condensation from, to and around words. much depends on the syntactical surprise, the sense of language shifting its stance before our eyes. think of how Dickinson wrenches hymn and doggerel into difficult blossoms. and into the 20th century, the desire/need to get into the space between words: the disjunctive. but our brains aren't just leaping machines, they also follow trails. I see prose as logical line. and yet, in my own prose, I dismay it with a curious sense of resolution. the inferred story one sees in my work is incomplete, not fully voiced, not limited. you could say this is my tactic but it isn't planned. it is how the writing occurs. one poem I read seems illustrative:

Le Voyage au Cafe

All openings proclaimed the new coffee. Simple story: new coffee had beat to the fragrance. Not a palm oil confusion could be found in the basic bliss. A crux coaxed the ball rolling. New dumps were seen in tracing growth thru effort and the catalogue. Old coffee was taken down, brewing on the side of trade. We won't trade any more, proclaimed the days of faster all of you. New coffee like a chain in space, a turnpike called west, a lovely expectation tilling field. New coffee sends shock, jets land on fog timber, the president wills for lasting: all this adheres to humps of future list our names. A drink of new coffee, collective bargaining agreement, a press toward natural, all the basics raveling in a guide of tourneys on the sly. Friends in this time reach over the fence, changing as change, kneeling quickly to result. With diffidence, fog happens to the trace, sonic in bud and back while reclaiming the destitute trump. Mirror hovers over patience like a docket filled with tools. Gesturing rings of sample toes as foot beams need a looming. Friends clump new coffee for the fettle whilst of choose. Chatter bug rambling farm reaps meme taste klatsch for all. Federation meantime matches nebulous parity toward the door. New coffee then plumply lights the hay as we gussy up the flow.

* * * * *

note how it begins declaratively, but shifts into Coolidge Beat. this is prose dangling helplessly. it is squeezed together, hurried and even to me strange. I write these comments from a respectful distance of amazement. I observe the writing thru me. as I read yesterday, I felt my words kinda shooting over people's heads. certainly not in the sense of being too intellectually grand, but that my strategy is unexpected. and my muttered explicatory comments were only hesitant guesses at the time, m0re confusing than helpful. all 3 of the other poets who read yesterday gave small compriseable chunks to the listeners. Alan's short bursting lines, Christina's distinct, pounding (and hilarious) gatherings, and the flickering recognitions of John (I think my earlier comments on his reading disserve him some). my prosy pieces are rather relentless in how they run out ahead. their density owes to some kind of physics I haven't worked out the vocabulary of yet. also, I don't believe it is easily seen how seriously I take Fu Manchu, Tarzan and space aliens. if you've read this far, I just want to say that this is no apologia or defense, it's a working out.

I just discovered this interesting e-book, a collaborative conversation between Alan Davies and Miles Champion. I found Alan very approachable concerning critical and poetic matter. he's thoughtful and committed but not mysterious. a seriously low rent dependence on personality smothers Poetry Land. and it is not just the chattering bloggers who stoop so, you see it in the academic world too. this competitive fol-de-rol is all cartoon quality dynamics that leave a pall of discouragement. when I earlier spoke of Davies being gallant, it was an assertion of his calm dedication to poetry, not that other stuff. Wikipedia says he's a buddhist, which I suspected from his conversation. I don't know if Wikipedia is accurate but it makes sense. anyway, I invite people to read the above e-book, and I hope to write more about Davies.

a full poetry weekend for Beth and Allen. saturday a dinner at the home of John and Andrew, who run (with others) the Demolicious Series. Alan Davies, Christina Strong and Jack Kimball also attended. Alan and Christina came up from the city together on the bus, and stayed with John and Andrew. Christina had a reading later, more anon. some gossip, some poetry talk, lots of conversation. as someone who allowed himself to be distant from the poetry happenings of this town, it is good to connect. it was pretty late for this child when we got home. the cat kindly let me sleep in till 6:30, but a mite weary nathless. we got to the reading just at 2:00. Michael, with whom I've had an email correspondence, and who is a hardened veteran of my previous reading, was outside the gallery. inside was empty. we helped set up chairs then went down the street so Beth could get some much needed coffee. tired as I was I also had adrenalin in my blood, so I partook of none. Joel Sloman, Christina and someone whose name I haven't retained read open mike. then me. should one review one's own reading? well I will. I practiced quite a bit, or at least, reading thru my selection of poems 2 or 3 times a day seems like a considerable bit of practice. I weeded out a few poems that I didn't feel I could read well. also, I aimed at no more than 20 minutes. I attempted the spectrum, which is not accomplishable in 20 minutes. I mean, I think my work is varied but anyway, any writer has a range to their work. as I read I became aware of the difficulty of prose. I really wonder what poetry is, but in sooth, I see the formal presence of poetry. I think my prose is poetic, that it is poetry, but it is difficult to hear aloud. at least, that was how I felt. my more narrative works seem to strain poetry's bounds. the last piece that I read is narrative, tho it may not be clear in the piece that my idea of narrative shies from resolution. I became aware that context was unclear. it was part of a series but maybe hung there weirdly. anyway, I managed dynamics as I read tho really, I don't want to modulate professionally, if you know what I mean. I seem to have a permanent ticklish cough which was something to deal with. and one of the proprietors of the gallery for some reason sat off to the side making random noises with things. I mean dropping things and such. it wasn't cruelly distracting but it put a part of my mind bemusedly wondering. she actually made her exit with a flourish while Alan read. obliviousness that could be bottled. I didn't feel connected to the audience, but maybe I was thinking too much. I should avoid thinking. at one point I heard myself intone poet voice. only briefly, and I noted it for the audience. I see what I write as an intimacy, not a performance (not to denigrate performance) and could feel myself not wanting to give into some need to convince the audience. I read selected poems from a couple of series, and realized that the context was confused. that's a difficulty I have with magazines, that much of my poems connect with others, and to present them without that context is a disservice. but fiddle-dee-dee. I had no sense how the audience really felt about my reading, which perhaps is a blindness on my part. but enough about me, if that is possible. Alan Davies read directly. he's a really nice person, friendly, gallant even, and uncompetitive. he lives in NYC but is from Canada (you can hear it in his accent, tho he's been in this country pretty much entirely since he was 17). Davies read Book 5 and Book 6. of what? his ongoing project, for which he has a working title that he would not reveal. Book 5 is published by Katalanche Press, Michael Carr proprietor. Katalanche also published a book by Mark Lamoureaux (sorry if I misspelled), that I reviewed at Galatea Resurrects. from the evidence the books are made with care and love. I will seek more offerings from the press. Book 6 is in manuscript. Davies is currently working on book 10. he read sitting down. Book 5 consists of 2 short-lined verses per page, 2 to 4 lines long. I thought of hay(na)ku, or even haiku, for each stands on its own tho they form a chain. he read in a direct, punchy but not overly processed way. Book 6 had longer lines and was more flowingly read. the effect in those cases is multi-layered. or twined threads, say. in Book 6 Davies uses a bold square to mark the line end. Davies writes by hand, I ask those sorts of question. listening to Book 6, I could imagine him travelling around with a notebook. that the poems seemed to inhabit a reactive space. later, a group of us--11, I think--went to a nearby restaurant. this is such a sweet thing, to convene so. I asked Alan about how he wrote and he showed me a 5x8 yellow notepad, which was his work for Book 10. he said he does write here and there but that's not the nature of his work. I was taken by the yellow pad, as in: not a notebook? I'm a notebook guy. he gave me his copy of Book 6, as well as 2 other books, that are currently still in the car. we hung at the restaurant for a while. Christina was to read at 7, so there was time to kill. it boiled down to Alan, Michael, Beth and I hunting down a bookstore. there's a notable used bookstore in Somerville to which we repaired. with the trip across town, hunt for parking, and walk down the street we hadn't much time in the store. then we aimed ourselves towards the Plough and Stars. it was noisy and jammed but we found seats. Christina read 1st. the 1st piece was a long, snappy and snapping thing. her work is mordant, funny and political. which doesn't seem to express the experience of hearing her work. I mean, her work doesn't shape around three adjectives so easily. googly voices appear, and assorted strains (several senses to the word). lots of energy. John Coletti followed. his work consists of short glints. I know that sounds like a lame description but it seems apt. poetic flashes. he intoned his work dryly with an effective filigree of tangential comment. I felt like his work stayed in one language tho. I must say that I have a dismay about poetry. divested, mostly, of the romantic idea, the byronic type who wanders lonely as a cloud, and much influenced by the Creeley firmly laid line and cadence, yet I suffer a sense, still, of limitation. which is why prose is important to me, with its shifting variances. I think my prose struggles in contention with the block of text as block of text, if you take my meaning. in the sense that each block of text looks the same, so the phanatopeia demands a visualizing effort on the reader/listener's part. anyone get me here? I saw Coletti's work floating free, yet its glintiness seemed ephemeral. tho there were lines that I would want to remember, if my brain weren't so porous. he had a good-natured performative relationship with his work. I don't mean to post him up as my problem, but in his work I see my own issues. so there that was. Christina gave me a copy of Anti-Star, from which she read. and then it was time to go home.

Official Reading Announcement

SUNDAY, APRIL 1
2:00 P.M.
OUT OF THE BLUE GALLERY
106 Prospect St.
Cambridge



ALAN DAVIES is the author of many books of poetry, including Name (This), Signage (Roof), Candor (O Books) and Rave (Roof), as well as an untitled collaboration with photographer Mark Winterford published by Zasterle. He has written many critical articles and book reviews, and has lectured here and abroad. He was twice a recipient of Canada Council Grants for the Arts. His big book called Life is forthcoming from O Books. He is at work on a lifelong project consisting of individual books, a couple of which have been published as chap books.



ALLEN BRAMHALL has lived in Massachusetts all his life. He attended microscopic Franconia College, where Robert Grenier taught him for a year and published his work in This 3. He next published 27 years later. He has one book published, the highly collectible Simple Theory (Potes & Poets Press), and another due from Meritage Press. He ruminates, asseverates, lollygags and flickers on his awesome blog Tributary. He also paints.

I haven't read a lot of Davies but I like the idea of a lifelong project. I agree, I shouldn't be allowed to write my bio. and yet... I like mentioning Franconia, because it's such a quirky note on one's resume. and Grenier made a strong impression on me that I feel the need to note. and the 27 year gap between publications says something, fill in the blank. and I take this blog seriously. the person who read the note at the last Demolicious reading had trouble with the list of verbs in the penultimate sentence. oh well. I'm a very good writer.

just to clarify my unclarity: Christina Strong and John Coletti read at The Plough and Stars (Cambridge) on April 1, at 7:00. I have a Plough and Stars story. I was there once many years ago when a patron, who had verily been enjoying himself, was now, er, cleaning the window from the outside. he looked, let us say, numerous sheets to the wind. I offer this not as being indicative of the establishment but just as a suggestion of local colour.

I'll be reading at the Out of the Blue Gallery, 106 Prospect St in Cambridge this coming sunday, April 1. Alan Davies reads as well. can 2 different spellings exist in the same temporal space? I think Christina Strong and someone else read at Plough and Stars, just down the road on Mass Ave, at 7:00, but I can't find the lowdown so I'm not sure. there will be Guinness there even if the poets aren't, but frankly, I think I'm remembering right. maybe the King of Boston Poetry will appear in the audiences (great anticipation).

boy, if Sparta only had a Pop Warner football team... I am not keen on how computer-generated effects seem so lifeless. I have an active distaste for the sort of animation used with Shrek. the effect is anemic and the opposite of engrossing for me. 300 was effective but the cartoon quality intruded frequently. the giant that the Persians unleashed was a bit ridiculous. he pulls a sword from his bicep during the showdown then pulls one from his eye. decapitation fazed him a bit, however. I liked the scene in Troy when Achilles goes one on one with a similar, albeit less Orc-like, giant (mano against mano as the Joker says in the 1st Batman). a Texas death match in which the winner wins the field for his team. Achilles Pitt runs towards the giant, who was created in one of Vince McMahon's steroid factories. the giant throws spears which Achilles deflects. when they are about to clash, Achilles makes this nifty leaping kick feint that brings him in position to drill his sword into the back of the giant's neck. game, set match. in 300, closeups were used to distraction. reminded of JFK. Oliver Stone stuck the camera up everyone's nose except his hero Garrison, a cheesy ploy. it seemed more random in 300, like it seemed like a good idea at the time. I found it a cluttering technique. now, did the Persians really wear silver masks? I don't think it is necessary to add cream cheese to the historical artifact. that is, I don't think you can make up stuff more fascinating than the historical record. I doubt that the survivour of the 300 would really have given such a boring speech prior to the Armageddon with the Persians at the end. still, without having seen the graphic novel, I'd say the movie did it justice. it translated the effects into cinema in a way that would satisfy fans of graphic novels. it satisfied me well enough.