A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to the Market, 7:40 p.m. PST
Walking down the alley on the way to Little's Market, I spied my friend Jessica approaching, cradling a large brown paper bag.
"What's in the bag," asked I.
"Burr."
"Burr?"
"Burr," she said.
"What kind of burr?"
"Stoat."
Just then, her boyfriend Brian poked his head out of the apartment door (yes, they live in an alley) and said, "Jessica, what are you doing? I thought you were doing laundry," to which she replied:
"No. I was at the store. Buying beer."
I walked on, lonely as a cloud.
Monday, March 29, 2004
Sunday, March 28, 2004
Sunday Morning
Okay, it's really Sunday afternoon. I've spent the past week attending AWP vicariously through Shanna Compton's (and others') blog. Damn. Everybody is WAY cooler than me. Shanna got to eat at Rick Bayless' restaurant AND she peeped the new Court Green, of which I don't yet have a copy.
Meanwhile, I'm hanging out in dark bars drinking pabst and bourbon and talking to strangers in distress. Good thing classes start again tomorrow.
Okay, it's really Sunday afternoon. I've spent the past week attending AWP vicariously through Shanna Compton's (and others') blog. Damn. Everybody is WAY cooler than me. Shanna got to eat at Rick Bayless' restaurant AND she peeped the new Court Green, of which I don't yet have a copy.
Meanwhile, I'm hanging out in dark bars drinking pabst and bourbon and talking to strangers in distress. Good thing classes start again tomorrow.
Wednesday, March 24, 2004
Another Grid
Per Kent Johnson's suggestion that young poets "want to write the fractured lyric of intellectual, self-reflexive experience, or else some theory-inflected version of the cool, campy Frank O’Hara-like poem, or some hybrid version of these styles."
Maximalist
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Stein----------------------------O’Hara
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Minimalist
Where do blogger/poets we know and love fit onto this grid?
Per Kent Johnson's suggestion that young poets "want to write the fractured lyric of intellectual, self-reflexive experience, or else some theory-inflected version of the cool, campy Frank O’Hara-like poem, or some hybrid version of these styles."
Maximalist
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Stein----------------------------O’Hara
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Minimalist
Where do blogger/poets we know and love fit onto this grid?
Today's Cookie
These are delicious. It's like eating pure butter. (Well, it IS...almost)
+ + +
Cream Wafers
Known as Pariserwafier in Sweden.
They are rich and flaky.
1 cup soft butter
1/3 cup cream (35% butterfat)
2 cups sifted GOLD MEDAL Flour
Mix well butter, cream, flour. Chill. Heat
oven to 375 degrees(quick mod.). Roll out dough
1/8” thick on floured board. Cut with 1 ½”
cutter. Roll only 1/3 of dough at a time; keep
rest refrigerated. Transfer rounds to waxed
paper heavily covered with granulated sugar.
Turn each round so that both sides are coated
with sugar. Place on ungreased baking sheet.
Prick with fork about 4 times. Bake 7 to 9 min.
Cool and put two cookies together with
Filling (recipe below). Makes about 5 doz.
double cookies.
Filling
6 tablespoons butter
2 ¼ cup powdered sugar sifted
2 small egg yolks
1 ½ teaspoon vanilla
Blend all together. Tint pink and green.
These are delicious. It's like eating pure butter. (Well, it IS...almost)
+ + +
Cream Wafers
Known as Pariserwafier in Sweden.
They are rich and flaky.
1 cup soft butter
1/3 cup cream (35% butterfat)
2 cups sifted GOLD MEDAL Flour
Mix well butter, cream, flour. Chill. Heat
oven to 375 degrees(quick mod.). Roll out dough
1/8” thick on floured board. Cut with 1 ½”
cutter. Roll only 1/3 of dough at a time; keep
rest refrigerated. Transfer rounds to waxed
paper heavily covered with granulated sugar.
Turn each round so that both sides are coated
with sugar. Place on ungreased baking sheet.
Prick with fork about 4 times. Bake 7 to 9 min.
Cool and put two cookies together with
Filling (recipe below). Makes about 5 doz.
double cookies.
Filling
6 tablespoons butter
2 ¼ cup powdered sugar sifted
2 small egg yolks
1 ½ teaspoon vanilla
Blend all together. Tint pink and green.
Some Questions
Is there one thing that all avant-garde art has in common? (besides opposition to the "mainstream")
What do we mean when we say "experimental" poetry?
I took one of those "What poet are you?" quizzes and it said I was Sharon Olds. Is it normal to want to kill myself now? Or should I reserve murderous thoughts for the obviously screwed-up inventor(s) of that quiz?
Is the avant-garde/experimental paradoxical in that it traditionally strikes an ultra-romantic pose but does so within the confines of a community (thus making it "classical" instead of "romantic")?
Am I a poseur if I read mostly avant-garde/experimental poetry but write very traditonal, mainstream poems? Am I simply a SOQ poet with Avant-envy?
Is there one thing that all avant-garde art has in common? (besides opposition to the "mainstream")
What do we mean when we say "experimental" poetry?
I took one of those "What poet are you?" quizzes and it said I was Sharon Olds. Is it normal to want to kill myself now? Or should I reserve murderous thoughts for the obviously screwed-up inventor(s) of that quiz?
Is the avant-garde/experimental paradoxical in that it traditionally strikes an ultra-romantic pose but does so within the confines of a community (thus making it "classical" instead of "romantic")?
Am I a poseur if I read mostly avant-garde/experimental poetry but write very traditonal, mainstream poems? Am I simply a SOQ poet with Avant-envy?
Tuesday, March 23, 2004
Monday, March 22, 2004
Poet D
is Arielle Greenberg. One responder guessed that Arielle was Poet C. Nobody guessed she was Poet D. A lot of folks thought this was written by an "older man" (sixties, white, suburban). Wrong. Age 31. She teaches at Columbia College in Chicago. She publishes as many poems as Lyn Lifshin. I only know that Arielle is a vegetarian. I haven't eaten with her. I thought I'd have the chance in St. Louis, but we didn't hook up for dinner. Good thing. I ate a heaping plate of steak on top of a heaping pile of Welsh Rabbit/Rarebit. I think that this particular poem is one of the strongest short pieces in her book, Given. Overall, response to this poem was favorable.
is Arielle Greenberg. One responder guessed that Arielle was Poet C. Nobody guessed she was Poet D. A lot of folks thought this was written by an "older man" (sixties, white, suburban). Wrong. Age 31. She teaches at Columbia College in Chicago. She publishes as many poems as Lyn Lifshin. I only know that Arielle is a vegetarian. I haven't eaten with her. I thought I'd have the chance in St. Louis, but we didn't hook up for dinner. Good thing. I ate a heaping plate of steak on top of a heaping pile of Welsh Rabbit/Rarebit. I think that this particular poem is one of the strongest short pieces in her book, Given. Overall, response to this poem was favorable.
Poet C
is Josh Edwards, Editor and Publisher of The Canary, and perhaps the easiest to peg. Everyone guessed this poet was male, and nearly everyone guessed his age (mid-twenties). Overall, people, were the harshest on this poem, and I'm not sure if it's one of Josh's least-likable poems, or if my taste is just off. Josh Corey's comment is fairly typical of the responses received: "Testosterone surrealism masking sentimentality." In fact, Corey also correctly guessed that Mr. Edwards is from Texas (but educated in Oregon and Alabama), and that he is a burger and fries sorta guy. Josh, for all the good work he does in poetry (publishing, editing, writing his own poems, and promoting like a madman), strikes me as a not-very-interesting eater. He's an "eat to live" guy, whereas I'm the other type. He detests mayonnaise or anything resembling mayonnaise. I've seen him eat gardenburgers a few too many times to be entirely trusting of his palate. Anyone who GOES OUT and then orders a gardenburger strikes me as immediately suspicious. He's also not fond of alimentary paste.
is Josh Edwards, Editor and Publisher of The Canary, and perhaps the easiest to peg. Everyone guessed this poet was male, and nearly everyone guessed his age (mid-twenties). Overall, people, were the harshest on this poem, and I'm not sure if it's one of Josh's least-likable poems, or if my taste is just off. Josh Corey's comment is fairly typical of the responses received: "Testosterone surrealism masking sentimentality." In fact, Corey also correctly guessed that Mr. Edwards is from Texas (but educated in Oregon and Alabama), and that he is a burger and fries sorta guy. Josh, for all the good work he does in poetry (publishing, editing, writing his own poems, and promoting like a madman), strikes me as a not-very-interesting eater. He's an "eat to live" guy, whereas I'm the other type. He detests mayonnaise or anything resembling mayonnaise. I've seen him eat gardenburgers a few too many times to be entirely trusting of his palate. Anyone who GOES OUT and then orders a gardenburger strikes me as immediately suspicious. He's also not fond of alimentary paste.
Poet B
is Kristin Kelly. She doesn't have a book, but I'd probably blurb it. Several people commented that they initially thought this was written by a male poet trying to write like a female. What I know about this poem: it and many others like it were written as part of a series--well, I'm not sure if that's the right word--of poems written mostly during the summer of 2002. Kristin and I wrote poems to each other and traded them via email for several months. These were mostly off-the-cuff unrevised "daily" sorts of poems. One thing we noticed at the end of our experiment is that we started sounding like each other--I can only guess that the "maleness" of this poem might be at least partially due to my influence at the time, or our trading of poetic identities.
Kristin would have been 22 or 23 when this was written. I've never eaten a meal with her--which just occurred to me and is strange. We've had only liquids together. Beer and coffee. She's currently at Iowa, but like many good poets, is originally from Kansas. She did her undergrad work (in Comparative Literature) at the University of Oregon in Eugene, where she wrote a very good poem about Dorothy Wordsworth.
is Kristin Kelly. She doesn't have a book, but I'd probably blurb it. Several people commented that they initially thought this was written by a male poet trying to write like a female. What I know about this poem: it and many others like it were written as part of a series--well, I'm not sure if that's the right word--of poems written mostly during the summer of 2002. Kristin and I wrote poems to each other and traded them via email for several months. These were mostly off-the-cuff unrevised "daily" sorts of poems. One thing we noticed at the end of our experiment is that we started sounding like each other--I can only guess that the "maleness" of this poem might be at least partially due to my influence at the time, or our trading of poetic identities.
Kristin would have been 22 or 23 when this was written. I've never eaten a meal with her--which just occurred to me and is strange. We've had only liquids together. Beer and coffee. She's currently at Iowa, but like many good poets, is originally from Kansas. She did her undergrad work (in Comparative Literature) at the University of Oregon in Eugene, where she wrote a very good poem about Dorothy Wordsworth.
Poem Test
The results are in.
Poet A is Robyn Schiff, as Josh Corey correctly guessed. All test-takers guessed that this poem was written by a woman except for one, but I imagine the one was being disingenuous for reasons I can't go into here. One disliked the title. The poem is from Robyn's book, Worth. It's blurbed by Mark Levine and Lyn Hejinian. A couple of people guessed that this poet was fond of sushi. I'm not sure. Every time I've dined with Robyn and her husband, she's eaten either meat (steak, chicken, etc.) or the same pasta dish--one with sausage. I haven't seen her eat sushi. Interestingly, many responses indicated that this poet was probably educated at Iowa. She was.
The results are in.
Poet A is Robyn Schiff, as Josh Corey correctly guessed. All test-takers guessed that this poem was written by a woman except for one, but I imagine the one was being disingenuous for reasons I can't go into here. One disliked the title. The poem is from Robyn's book, Worth. It's blurbed by Mark Levine and Lyn Hejinian. A couple of people guessed that this poet was fond of sushi. I'm not sure. Every time I've dined with Robyn and her husband, she's eaten either meat (steak, chicken, etc.) or the same pasta dish--one with sausage. I haven't seen her eat sushi. Interestingly, many responses indicated that this poet was probably educated at Iowa. She was.
Sunday, March 21, 2004
I've written one of Daniel Nester's poems for him:
FOCUS ON SAINTY
& discard the fanfare—each blast crowds slightly
In the shadow of a brightened face: a shanty.
Pick the lady on the flower barge. Shifty.
Readjust the crosshairs justly: sticky.
Your Oulippean pumps are just right shady.
I’m taking a schooner, a sloop, a sham.
Passably pasty and all in-between—foist
The fractured foible generator & focus on shellacking.
Fixate on shells—cheese and shells. You make us.
You make us shells. Shantih. Shantih. Cheyenne,
Wyoming.
Population Never.
FOCUS ON SAINTY
& discard the fanfare—each blast crowds slightly
In the shadow of a brightened face: a shanty.
Pick the lady on the flower barge. Shifty.
Readjust the crosshairs justly: sticky.
Your Oulippean pumps are just right shady.
I’m taking a schooner, a sloop, a sham.
Passably pasty and all in-between—foist
The fractured foible generator & focus on shellacking.
Fixate on shells—cheese and shells. You make us.
You make us shells. Shantih. Shantih. Cheyenne,
Wyoming.
Population Never.
Friday, March 19, 2004
Thursday, March 18, 2004
Speaking of Yeats
One more reason I love Gabe Gudding. (Hey, Gabe--we have that gay marriage thing out here in Oregon...)
AFTER YEATS
When I am old and using Revlon hair dye
and am sucking up my pharmacopoeia,
and can drink but Sanka--
when I don't have too many friends anymore
and the bathroom is a place of loneliness--
Yes, when I am old and Revloned and hypnogogic
and nodding at the wheel,
take down this book
and read of one who phoned you less and less,
but who dug you and remembered
your elegant hand
and somewhat geeky look.
(Gabriel Gudding)
One more reason I love Gabe Gudding. (Hey, Gabe--we have that gay marriage thing out here in Oregon...)
AFTER YEATS
When I am old and using Revlon hair dye
and am sucking up my pharmacopoeia,
and can drink but Sanka--
when I don't have too many friends anymore
and the bathroom is a place of loneliness--
Yes, when I am old and Revloned and hypnogogic
and nodding at the wheel,
take down this book
and read of one who phoned you less and less,
but who dug you and remembered
your elegant hand
and somewhat geeky look.
(Gabriel Gudding)
Poet Test & Stuff
I've had several responses so far to the Poetry Test below. I'm extending the deadline a bit.
I don't know if this will change the candidness of responses, but I will say this: all of the poets represented are people I know personally. The particular poems I posted were more or less random choices (pick up book, flip to page with short poem, google poet name on web, etc.)
*
It's raining here today after a week of gorgeous sunny summery weather. Bleah.
*
Last night I got drunk in a not-Irish bar and sang Clash songs loudly and offkey before spilling half a beer on one of my drinking companions. It wouldn't have been a big deal, but I hardly know the poor woman who ended up wearing most of my beer--so I did nothing but confirm her probable impression of me as a drunk asshole. A drunk asshole who knows most of the words to London Calling (the whole album).
*
Besides Irish Whiskey and green beer, the only thing I ate yesterday was a potato. That was very Irish of me. I cooked it in Extra Virgin olive oil (green) and sprinkled it with fresh sage (also green). I didn't wear any green clothes.
*
I tried to quote Yeats at the bar but I only managed one line.
I've had several responses so far to the Poetry Test below. I'm extending the deadline a bit.
I don't know if this will change the candidness of responses, but I will say this: all of the poets represented are people I know personally. The particular poems I posted were more or less random choices (pick up book, flip to page with short poem, google poet name on web, etc.)
*
It's raining here today after a week of gorgeous sunny summery weather. Bleah.
*
Last night I got drunk in a not-Irish bar and sang Clash songs loudly and offkey before spilling half a beer on one of my drinking companions. It wouldn't have been a big deal, but I hardly know the poor woman who ended up wearing most of my beer--so I did nothing but confirm her probable impression of me as a drunk asshole. A drunk asshole who knows most of the words to London Calling (the whole album).
*
Besides Irish Whiskey and green beer, the only thing I ate yesterday was a potato. That was very Irish of me. I cooked it in Extra Virgin olive oil (green) and sprinkled it with fresh sage (also green). I didn't wear any green clothes.
*
I tried to quote Yeats at the bar but I only managed one line.
Wednesday, March 17, 2004
Tuesday, March 16, 2004
Tuesday More
Exams finished. One student managed to spell "houyhnhnm" correctly. If "houyhnhnm" is the correct spelling.
On the TV in the other room, Martha Stewart is arguing with a caller about the proper way to filet a chicken breast. She keeps saying "paillard" and the caller is confused. Caller explains that she's Korean. Martha says something condescending.
More to come. (Carson.)
Oh yeah, respond to the poem test. It's more fun than Ron's.
Exams finished. One student managed to spell "houyhnhnm" correctly. If "houyhnhnm" is the correct spelling.
On the TV in the other room, Martha Stewart is arguing with a caller about the proper way to filet a chicken breast. She keeps saying "paillard" and the caller is confused. Caller explains that she's Korean. Martha says something condescending.
More to come. (Carson.)
Oh yeah, respond to the poem test. It's more fun than Ron's.
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