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from notebook

Throngs of people in the centre of katowice scuttling down the street. Legs don't work right around here. My energies are dispersed and can't keep ahead of the curve. Nothing is not enough. A saturation and then repulsion of selves. Reading and writing and being awake are a survival strategy. A pull toward the pit. Feeling all my work is a forgery. Why did I begin these travels? Why leave America? Have I discovered anything? I wanted to expand my writing practices. Not sure if I needed to go anywhere to expand my writing practices but I have learned what I don't want. Location is torn apart and I need a centre to direct my energies. Anti-poetic. Embodied. sex/birth/and primordial themes. The primal verge!!!


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Another Ireland: Part Two
Maurice Scully, The Basic Colours. Durham, UK: Pig Press, 1994.
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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…