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the road

the sun came out today in London. The blue skies smelt like North Carolina. I went looking for wooden porches but found red brick houses. Liverpool made it to the next stage. I have been thinking about frames. Interchangeable frames. Moving frames. Pictures and sounds. Hush puppies. My mind is not so disconnected from my stomach. i once had a porch and a swing. I never went outside today in London. The mind believes and the body follows. My hands are cold because the window is open. There is a scratch in my throat. I miss the warm home and community in North Carolina. I rediscovered poetry and rediscovered my body. After school chats with Stuart Dischell and Fred Chappell in the university pub. Lucifer Poetics on the road. I am still on the road. The road cliches but only when we let it. the road is not a map. not a movement, not a series of stops and starts, not a splattering of signs, not the now, not what comes later but a memory always in process.

i've had a muddled mind with spots of clarity. For the past three years I was in purgatory. I made my purgatory. I'm coming out. I need English in my life. I need the mirrors of community. But mostly I need English to create.

Writing is clarity. But it is damn messy. It is not always clear what is clear and what is clear might turn out to be muddy and vice versa. A faux poetics. Slow it down. Noun clusters speed it up. Gerunds rock. Prog rock poetics. Orchestral movements in the dark.

Thinking in frames. Thinking in sentences. Thinking in tenses. Thinking thinking thinking. Dot Dot Dot.

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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…