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in and out

what will and what won't go. Books are coming in again. All those hundreds upon hundred of books let go in North Carolina to travel the world.

On the way from parent's gift certificate:

Collected Poems of Philip Whalen


still reading collected poems of Kenneth Koch (the "short ones")

wondering about getting Joanne Kyger's collected poems.

These are huge books. Whalen and Kyger. "Zen cowboys" as Silliman likes to say.

Work work work. How much time is spent thinking of "the work." Whether writing or the day job etc. etc.

and somehow getting as close as possible to life itself. That membrane of language between. Sometimes in the way. Experience. That is what we crave. Why organized religion does not satisfy. Why anything doesn't. Including poetry. As it develops into rigor mortis. Keep it fluid. Life is fluid whether we like it or not.

is anything new? What I am typing as I am looking at the door to catch the tube for a 1 hr 20 min ride on the tube for work is NOT NEW.

I listen to zen lectures almost every night. Zencast. I want to get closer to life. To you.

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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…