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Nin Andrews
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I suppose I am the garbage collector in this tale. My mother, who will not be with us much longer I think, has been trying very hard to get rid of books. Everyone else has shown no interest. I have now a complete Shakespeare collection from the 1700s, a signed Faulkner, and a lot of very peculiar mouldering volumes. Last time we were all gathered, and my mother once again begged everyone to search the books, I made my pile, and suddenly everyone suddenly became jealous. Some of these old books are so strange, it is hard to explain their value. Language is used so differently from one century to the next, and history, too, changes--the same events told in 1900, for example, are not at all the same at all. But I do pity whoever comes after me.
The three letters, AWP, give me the willies, but I will look for these books in 2012.
I'd love to see a photo of these poppies on the the black armbands when they played their "friendly." I love that, term, "friendly," as opposed to a regular game, of what, a hostile?
I thought I would close this week of blogging with the amazing Nicole Santalucia with a few parodies . . . Continue reading
Posted Nov 12, 2011 at The Best American Poetry
Why bitch? you might ask. Indeed why? Especially when the word, poetry, seems at odds with the cultural landscape. Especially when the label, poet, is often synonymous with some kind of annoying and pretentious buffoon, much like those that appear in Kenneth Koch’s story, “The Lockets.” Especially when even the best poets feel pressured to become ceaselessly self-promoting on Facebook, Twitter, LinkedIn and whatever else is new out there, as they seek glory in cyberspace. For comic relief I turn to reviews like DMQ, Gargoyle, Praxilla, Triggerfish, and Plume, and to poets like Peter Johnson, Mark Halliday, Mitch Sisskind, Kenneth... Continue reading
Posted Nov 9, 2011 at The Best American Poetry
Bitching with Nicole is one of my favorite pastimes. I know, that sounds odd. How can I explain this? Maybe a story will help. A story about the day the bitching began. It was a Tuesday in October, 2009. Nicole and I were having dinner at the Café Loup with G, a literary agent, who told us we should write a book that sells. We could still write our poems on the side, sort of like a hobby, maybe like knitting, baking bread, or crocheting . . . Instead of objecting or running to the defense of poetry, Nicole immediately... Continue reading
Posted Nov 6, 2011 at The Best American Poetry
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Nov 2, 2011