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quick take from the notebook

Chicago to Istanbul (8 Jan 2010)

You write if as if something is happening to you. I am happening. This is a happening. Happy haze grazes these sentences. Do not trust goodwill. History decays. What is an exception? The cold duck wades into the pond. I don’t want to get out but get in. How do the flowers suffer? It has happened. You are crushed in my nasals. I’m saying hello to my heart. I’m an abducted alien. Kristy Thomas is not an illusion. A pencil is an extension. We are not prigs. This is not a game. I am still drinking you in.


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