Skip to main content
American Poetry acccording to a few hundred students at UNCG:

Most students in four different classes had friends who wrote poetry and read at coffee shops. Quite a few thought a poet was polite, agreeable. A nice dinner guest. Only a few thought of a poet as crazy and dangerous (we were discussing the Irish bard and Yeats Hanrahan). Most thought American poets are all songwriters/rappers.

Audience was a big harping during my four years of grad school. My mentor Bruce Beasley was not concerned about a huge audience. A small intense audience is better than millions of adoring fans who only see the surface? Even if that intense audience consists mostly of other poets?

I am happy with an audience. Should I be uncomfortable with an audience mostly of peers?

Not sure. But I've got to sneeze.

It's got to be true it's got to be true:
the writing itself is central.
Audience, recognition second.

My cat has a feather and treats it like a baby.

Sometimes I want to rip the alphabet a new one. Sometimes the alpha scares me more than the omega.
Sometimes the alphabet makes me want to hide my hat in the broom closet.

Tired of cleaning up after the alphabet.

A mess here. A mess there. Everywhere a mess mess.

Is there life after the alphabet?

is there life after chocolate?


Anonymous said…
Who are you my dear friend?
I find your text unusual.

Popular posts from this blog

poets reading poets

There are on A now: Andrews, Antin, Apollinaire, Ashbery

A project from the Atlanta Poetry Group. Check it:

The Poetry of Tao Lin

Another Ireland by Robert Archambeau

This review really hit it for me. I recently read Maurice Scully's _Livelihood_ and Geofrey Squires _Untitled and Other Poems_ is on deck (I love that baseball term. It is baseball, right?)

I think this is from The Nortre Dame review, but I found it via goofle (I mean google).

Another Ireland: Part Two
Maurice Scully, The Basic Colours. Durham, UK: Pig Press, 1994.
Geoffrey Squires, Landscapes and Silences. Dublin: New Writers' Press, 1996.
Catherine Walsh, Idir Eatortha and Making Tents. London: Invisible Books, 1996.

By Robert Archambeau

I began the first half of this article (Notre Dame Review #4) by mentioning some of the limits to the legendary hospitality Ireland has shown to its poets. If you arrive in Ireland from any point of departure outside of Eastern Europe, you will indeed find a public far more willing than the one you left behind to grant poets the recognition all but the most ascetic secretly crave. However, this hospitality has never extended to Irish poets w…