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Is honest searching for difference different than sinister specialness. When does specialness become sinister. Is it possible for extreme individualism to screw up a society?

Maybe what I mean is beside the point rather than the point.
(Ha. I'm clever. I'm special. I'm unique. I'm me. etc.)

I worry about difference daily. And community. I think about community a lot. I want to belong and not belong.

Alright. Onto sillyness. Tricky deep poetic silliness in the name of specialness (there's deep meaning here. Poetry is deep. That's what my students say).

A lot of "well-respected" visiting poets have shook their all-knowing heads at the young poets full of caustic irony and sillyness.

"How can we know when we are saying something if we don't believe in saying anything?"

In other words where's the fire baby?

I believe. Many others believe. Get some new reading

I say enough is never enough.


and so on.


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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…