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Swimming underwater today with head cold.

I've been thinking a lot about period styles (conversational narrative etc.)
Sebastian Matthews came last week and read some poems and part of the memoir. Did not enjoy it. William Matthews is ok, but not very interesting. I am not sure why (other than recognition, status as son of etc.) a memoir that restates all the old conventions of artist as fucked up, unconventional etc. So what? maybe I'm not being fair since I didn't read the whole memoir, but the parts Sebastian read were boring as hell.

So do we ignore the worry of being swept up by a period style and just write from gut. instinct. diverse readings across time and space etc. ?

Again cross pollination as impure versus cross pollination as possibility. Take a little Paz mix it with a little Simic, Lorca, O' Hara, Kinnell, memory, your experience of and with language, and what do you get? Something new?

Does novelty carry a negative (i.e. fad)? I'm constantly searching for new experiences (of language, of music) does that make me blow with the wind and thus inauthentic, ungrounded? I'm bored easily, but many poets from previous centuries interest and astound me. Novelty. New. fad. period style.

The worry of period style is the worry of authenticity or the worry of immortality. Can only the authentic be immortal?

Alright, I am throwing things around very loosely and my philosophy background is screaming at me: define your terms.

Art and life do not divide in any way for me. I am searching, always searching and that searching for authenticity exists in my attempts at life and my attempts at art.

Being a tad sick makes me contemplate my mortality.

I will only write out of neccessity (as the cliche goes).

Time for a wrap (no cheese).


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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.

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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…