In the spirit of Tony Tost's list (and in solidarity so he doesn't have to take all that sh*t completely alone) I have compiled my own "Poets who I seem to like considerably less than my peers for nebulously defined reasons," and "Poets who I seem to enjoy considerably more than my peers for nebulously defined reasons" lists. Note that this list has to do mainly with "unexpected" tastes. E.g. I like Ashbery, Zukovsky, Spicer, Baudelaire, and others about as much as you would expect, or that I am "supposed" to. So these lists refer to personal preferences which may (or may not) surprise people. I have made the "enjoy considerably more" list longer because I think I like more work than I am ambiguous about. I think the usefulness of a list like this is that it helps to dispel stereotypes. Keep in mind that the focus in the first list is "less than others," and *NOT* "not at all." I use "in English" to refer to poets in translation who I am able to read in the original (e.g. French).

Work I seem to enjoy less than my peers for nebulously defined reasons (with all due respect):

1. David Shapiro (sorry, everyone!)
2. Frank O'Hara (or at least my favorites tend to differ considerably from others')
3. Emily Dickinson
4. Allen Ginsberg
5. W. H. Auden
6. Susan Howe
7. Gary Snyder
8. Han-Shan
9. John Godfrey's prose poems
10. Arthur Rimbaud in English

Work I seem to enjoy more than my peers for nebulously defined reasons:

1. Eleni Sikelianos (one of our greatest poets, as far as I'm concerned)
2. Bruce Andrews
3. Walt Whitman
4. Fanny Howe
5. Annie Finch
6. James Schuyler
7. Dorothy Parker
8. Keith Douglas
9. John Godfrey's verse poems
10. James Thomson
11. Jim Harrison
12. Laura Riding
13. Edmond Jabes in English
14. Li Ch'ing-Chao
15. James Merrill
16. Michael Palmer
17. Basil Bunting
18. Homer (but never those crappy prose translations)

Dance dance dance to the radio

Do yourself a favor and check out Scott Glassman's December podcast over at 30 days.

Extremely busy week filled largely with temping, going right from work to school to home to sleep. Thus not much blogging. Next week should not be so busy so I should be able to say more. In the meantime, check out my essay in Fulcrum 4.

A Man of Wealth (har!) and Taste

Sorry, I couldn't help it. This quiz seems to be well-researched. (Eileen is an angel!)


You are Form 7, Gryphon: The Wyrm.

"And The Gryphon displaced the balance of
the world in his favor. With grace and
control, Gryphon deceived mankind and ruled
over civillization. But even he realized that
all good things must come to an end."

Some examples of the Gryphon Form are Satan
(Christian) and Baphomet (Assyrian).
The Gryphon is associated with the concept of
control, the number 7, and the element of wind.
His sign is the gibbous moon.

As a member of Form 7, you are a very in control
individual. You maintain your coolness in most
situations and always seem to be prepared.
Though some may say you are a bit of a control
freak, you know that you really do make the
best leader even if others can't see it.
Gryphons are the best friends to have because
they have a positive influence on people.


Which Mythological Form Are You?
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FOR FRANCESCA WOODMAN #9
Polka Dots #5

this was
as was
           spotted
                serpent

or of the eaves

           I the corner
       or rubble
                      pegs hands
              if

half

of window     wainscot

                 was me
                 I snake
                             thus

It has come to my attention that the Francesca Woodman poems' formatting does not display correctly in Internet Explorer on a PC. If you have a PC, please view the poems with a different browser--such as Mozilla Firefox, which is free to download and far and away superior to IE.

FOR FRANCESCA WOODMAN #8
Boulder, Colorado, 1972-1975

   either             other

      ether


sister
                       shatter


             lover

       
                    never

                    oro-
                    borous

Dear Francesca,

On some days, I can see myself, refected on a spot of chrome on some corner of the city. I can see it, how the body swells with age. On these days I am a disease the light has. I am like Charlie. I can go only as a heretic to your temple. I can walk up and fown 12th Street thinking I can teach myself to see you there. You dare me to catch you. You are a sea urchin. You would roll over me, like that. That is the way a body betrays you, you might say.

This was not your city, either. How loudly you said so. I can walk up and down 12th Street and think of what I am not. How I am not. You were smiling the day I put away the camera. The day my body died. There on 12th Street I am afraid you will see me being, as I am, a ghost. It is not your way to leave anything untouched, any angle unseen. Your song that peels the paint off the walls. But I am less than that.

There is no way to give this to you. Forget it on the floor and let it disintegrate. That is how you speak to me. You only speak. You cannot see me. I am just a body. The parcel is too large. I cannot fit through the little hole you tore in the eye, in the firmament.

Give my love to Gerard. Do not wait up for me, as I am late. I am always late.

Yours,
-M

FOR FRANCESCA WOODMAN #7
Self Portrait (Talking to Vince)

Leaning out although
of fire speech

                      the warm if is was breath
                      expelled ruffles
                      a curtain

not words only
frozen spit, swaddles
                   covers
                   all my mouths
                   O my mouths
                   of the open
                   of the dark wall
                   of the open I O 
                                         unshod
                                         I