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2005-08-25, 1:18 p.m.:
Good for poetry: The Page. 0 comments
2005-08-21, 9:53 p.m.:
Thoughts typed with one hand on a computer without a space bar: 1. No, there was - is - a typo in the poem: The ultimate period is missing. 2. I do love the music to 'Giselle.' 3. Readings: I miss them, but it took awhile to reach this state. Suppose I was burned out, but now I'm again yearning for both the poet-y camaradite and the inspiration. 4. My baby. Is both a night owl, seemingly, and a person who is most cheerful in the morning. 5. I'm an inveterate homebody and I can barely stand to be footloose and fancy free. 0 comments
2005-08-18, 10:19 p.m.:
Truly autumnal, the Augusts here at 8,500 ft. Back to school everything. It's exactly that weather evoking both hope and nostalgia. I guess because, for me, school (the new coming) has always meant both. I just got my contributor's copy for Ash Canyon Review. The poem looks perfect on the page (how much of it is a coincidence is it that my one good one-pager got accepted somewhere - a new, a small poem - while my lengthy, wordy, overwritten-on-purpose-you-ass magnum opuses (opi?) continue to languish in slush piles?). The problem is the bio. Two factuals errors (introduced by the mag staff) in only three lines. I realized reading it last night that I've never had an error-free bio. I am bio cursed. The very first, for the very first poem-like thing published (actually, it was either a very short, very uneventful short story or a too-long prose poem, since reworked into an actual poem, still too long; but then it has to be as it tells a story) ... anyway, the bio for this first one spelled my name wrong. We live at 6,500 feet, the bio said. P. and I both agreed: That's nothing, not cool at all. That's practically like living in Boulder. Now, 8,500 ft. - that's cool. 0 comments
2005-08-15, 12:45 p.m.:
I'm liking Clay Matthews' work (in H_ngm_n) (in storySouth) (in DIAGRAM) (in The New Hampshire Review). That not enough? Then read him in the horse less press, too. What? What has happened to Rock Salt Plum Review? Right after I just submitted to them? There are now 80,000 "poetry blogs," all seemingly sprung up overnight like spring mushrooms. Their 'debate of art' seems currently to center around the New Sincerity, which I had not ever even heard of before last week. And am already heartily sick of. (What poetry is NOT "sincere," I ask you? Nowadays? Excepting the shallowest, most sleight-of-hand fare, i.e. the totally cerebral stuff interested only in linguistic highwire acts and the like. I don't know, I don't mean to malign the avants or the post- ... I think I would understand the New Sincerity better if I understood who it is a movement AGAINST rather than which poets it considers itself aligned with.)
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