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<h2 class='date-header'><span>Tuesday, October 29, 2002</span></h2>

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<span style="font-family: Arial;">At his reading Sunday with
Chris McCreary and <span class="SpellE">Rosmarie</span> Waldrop at the Painted Bride,
Lewis Warsh referred to the stories in his Singing Horse Press book <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Touch of the Whip</i> as poems, then stopped
&amp; corrected himself. Perhaps he shouldn&#8217;t have.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">Poets&#8217; prose is a glorious
&amp; little understood jumble. The genre(s) can be traced back through
Burroughs, Stein &amp; Joyce at the very least to Baudelaire &amp; Aloysius
Bertrand*, to the origin of the prose poem. I would invoke Melville&#8217;s <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Moby Dick</i> not only as a further
instance, but as a superb example of the ways in which poets&#8217; fiction almost
invariably move beyond the tidy constraints of what is normatively fictive
(which I might then trace back, at least in the U.S., to Twain). Let me map out
what I see as six distinct tributaries of this phenomenon.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">First is the prose poem
itself. It by itself has multiple manifestations. One is the closed, one page
or less prose piece that can be traced back to Max Jacob, but which in the </span><st1:country-region><st1:place><span style="font-family: Arial;">United States</span></st1:place></st1:country-region><span style="font-family: Arial;"> comes heavily through the pernicious influence of
Robert <span class="SpellE">Bly&#8217;s</span> journal(s), <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Fifties </i>and <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Sixties,</i>
abetted by George Hitchcock&#8217;s <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Kayak</i>
and the numerous books of Russell <span class="SpellE">Edson</span>. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">The second, far more
interesting mode is the lengthier poet&#8217;s prose that remains clearly poetry,
which begins in American English with Stein &amp; then Williams&#8217; <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Kora in Hell</i>, but which really takes off
after John Ashbery&#8217;s<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> Three Poems, </i>Clark
Coolidge&#8217;s &#8220;Weathers&#8221; &amp; Robert Creeley&#8217;s <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Mabel</i>. This tendency has important French cousins in the work of
St.-John <span class="SpellE">Perse</span> and Francis Ponge. This is where I
would put Lyn Hejinian&#8217;s <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">My Life,</i> or
Beverly Dahlen&#8217;s <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">A Reading</i> or even
Jack Spicer&#8217;s <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Heads of the Town Up to the
<span class="SpellE">Aether</span>. </i>Questions of the serial poem and the epic
will eventually expand this category even further.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">After the prose poem comes a
mode of poetic fiction that would include Warsh&#8217;s marvelous <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Touch of the Whip, </i>much of the writing
by </span><st1:personname><span style="font-family: Arial;">Carla Harryman</span></st1:personname><span style="font-family: Arial;">, Creeley&#8217;s stories, the short fiction of Gil <span class="SpellE">Ott</span>, the narratives of Bobbie Louise Hawkins. <span class="GramE">And Samuel Beckett most of all.</span> These are all writers
clearly interested in the traditions and devices of fiction itself, but written
with a poet&#8217;s sense of literary value. There are few (if any) moments where,
say, character or <span class="GramE">plot, which may in fact be both present
&amp; pertinent, are</span> more important than the pleasures &amp;
problematics of the words immediately on the page in front of the reader. I
think that these may be the most difficult works of all for people to gauge,
because they truly transcend either of their source genres. Where I think you
can test my own work as poetry, and, say, Paul <span class="SpellE">Auster&#8217;s</span>
as fiction, these writers clearly are <span class="GramE">on their own</span>.
This thus may be the bravest prose of all. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">A close cousin to this
intergenre prose is more truly what I would call poet&#8217;s fiction, works by poets
that genuinely aim for the goals of fiction, but often employing many of the
devices (&amp; pleasures) of their home form: Gilbert Sorrentino &amp; Toby
Olson would be good examples. So would almost all the writing of the so-called
new narrative: Dodie Bellamy, </span><st1:personname><span style="font-family: Arial;">Kevin Killian</span></st1:personname><span style="font-family: Arial;">,
Robert <span class="SpellE">Gluck</span>, Bruce Boone, <span class="GramE">Michael</span>
<span class="SpellE">Amnasan</span>. I would place Harry Mathews here, although
I&#8217;d put the bulk of <span class="SpellE">Oulipo</span> fiction into the next
category.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">These would be those fiction
writers who clearly identify as such, but who write as though their readers
were going to be, if not poets per se, at least the readers of poetry. This is
where Burroughs &amp; Kerouac fit in (&amp; Melville at his best also). Kathy
Acker, Walter <span class="SpellE">Abish</span>, Lydia Davis, Sarah Schulman,
Samuel R. <span class="SpellE">Delany</span>, Julio <span class="SpellE">Cortázar</span>,
<span class="SpellE">Italo</span> <span class="SpellE">Calvino</span>, <span class="GramE">Joyce</span> of course; one could make a case for W.G. Sebald, as
for Carole <span class="SpellE">Maso</span>.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">Finally there are poets who
work hard to make a transition all the way to the values of fiction &#8211; the
problematics of plot-centric narrative, for example &#8211; but whose prose still
retains some surface features of their past as poets. Auster fits <span class="GramE">here,</span> as I think does the later work Michael Ondaatje (tho
his first works fit closer to the poet&#8217;s fiction category). <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">There are of course many
other kinds of creative prose &amp; fiction. These are merely the types that
touch on poetry as a genre &amp; tradition. None of this has to do with quality
per se, but I do think that it has to do with certain questions of literary
judgment. It&#8217;s a mistake, for example, to compare the prose of Lewis Warsh with
the novels, say, of Paul Auster, or with the prose poetry of Clark Coolidge.
Rather I suspect that over time, as we have more readers &amp; writers and more
works in each of these tributaries of excellence, we will eventually have a
cleaving between the various categories far more decisively than we have today.
In 2002, it is still possible to call <span class="GramE">both Russell</span> <span class="SpellE">Edson</span> &amp; Lyn Hejinian prose poets, </span><st1:personname><span style="font-family: Arial;">Carla Harryman</span></st1:personname><span style="font-family: Arial;"> &amp; Michael Ondaatje fiction writers. Fifty years
from now, such clusterings will simply seem like nonsense.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 10.0pt;">* When is
somebody going to publish Merrill <span class="SpellE">Gilfillan&#8217;s</span> superb
collection of translations from Bertrand&#8217;s <span class="SpellE"><span class="GramE"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Gaspard</i></span></span><span class="GramE"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>de</i></span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> la <span class="SpellE">Nuit</span></i>? <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<h2 class='date-header'><span>Sunday, October 27, 2002</span></h2>

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<span style="font-family: Arial;">Patrick Herron almost always
has something interesting to say, viz this note to the <span class="SpellE">ImitaPo</span>
list:<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: .5in; margin-right: .5in; margin-top: 0in; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-align: justify; text-autospace: none;">
The presence of the quotidian in verse seems to
remain an essential and perhaps even distinguishing characteristic of what is
commonly lumped and labeled as "American" poetry.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>We can find it in Whitman, Pound, Eliot
("hurry up please it's time"), O'Hara (who expands it to regularly
include personal names), Ginsberg, and especially Ron all over your work
("Nissan stanza" or "The beer can on the sidewalk had been
crushed flat" as two of perhaps thousands of examples).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>Alan too.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp;
</span>I was just reading one of <span class="SpellE">Kasey's</span> poems on <span class="SpellE">VeRT</span> and it was laden with almost paranoiac quotidian
statements, statements that should be shocking but just aren't.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>I find myself using the web for finding and
co-opting quotidian text from time to time (similar to what is in <span class="SpellE">Kasey's</span> poem I'd guess).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp;
</span>But I don't understand why or what makes the quotidian <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">poetic</i>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp;
</span>Is it in the nominal grounding of the abstract, perhaps as some sort of
exalted discrepancy with a vast valley between the peaks of the particular and
the general?</div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">Shklovsky somewhere talks
about how the aesthetic &#8211; I&#8217;m not sure if that&#8217;s how he identifies the
category, but it is how I remember it &#8211; always moves to incorporate all that is
on its fringe, rather like <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Blob</i>.
Or imperialism. Put more positively: one of the duties of poetry is to
continually expand what poetry can include &amp; discuss. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">For me, at least, this isn&#8217;t
about theory. I&#8217;ve written before about the importance of William Carlos
Williams&#8217; poem, &#8220;<a href="http://www.poetry.org/issues/issue4/text/prose/silliman1.htm">The Desert
Music</a>,&#8221; in shaping my recognition that I was to be a poet. While, in
retrospect, this is the most traditionally narrative of Williams&#8217; poems, it was
precisely its other elements &#8211; especially the depiction of the person sleeping
on the bridge &#8211; that enabled me at the age of 16 to &#8220;get&#8221; how poetry was
uniquely able to incorporate what Williams would have characterized as despised
materials, but which I would have identified (then &amp; now) as the
&#8220;invisible,&#8221; the background, the details that in fact make up the surfaces and
textures of daily life. It was exactly this capacity for what Patrick calls the
quotidian that brought me to poetry.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">I had been writing since the
age of 10 in order, I realize now &#8211; I couldn&#8217;t have articulated it then &#8211; to
bring order to my world. Like more than a few other poets, I was raised in a
classically dysfunctional family &#8211; the 500 pound gorilla in our living room
that went unseen &amp; undiscussed was my grandmother&#8217;s mental illness &#8211; and
writing gave me not only a place to escape (although it did that also), but
critical tools I could not have found any other way as a pre-teen. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">However, raised in a house
in which the only creative work around were four-to-a-volume <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Readers Digest Condensed Novels</i>, the
idea of poetry, let alone all its possibilities, was outside my field of vision
until I picked up that volume by Williams in the Albany Public Library sometime
around 1962. At that time, I was writing dreadful teenage fiction. I was under
the impression &#8211; and I&#8217;ve seen some of the responses to Patrick&#8217;s post on <span class="SpellE">ImitaPo</span> that reflect this position &#8211; that one was
constrained to craft novels around characters and action in order to get to
this &#8220;real&#8221; material, the so-called background detail. From my perspective, the
so-called elements of the &#8220;narrative drive&#8221; of a novel were really just an
excuse for enabling the author to incorporate what mattered most: these tiny
elements at the margins. The idea of a literature that could raise the
invisible up to the field of vision, in &amp; of itself, was a revelation. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">So for me, the quotidian, to
call it that (I never think of it as such), is not about adding a layer of
texture for the sake of enhancing a reality effect. The invisible or marginal
is not adjunct to the work: <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">it is the
work itself</i>. I want you to understand that dust bunny in the corner under
your desk. The whole of human history can be found there. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">But how that history is to
be discovered matters terribly. One of the primary objections I have to the
school of quietude is its grotesque sense of heroism, even when it&#8217;s a heroism
of everyday objects. A trowel is not a trope. This always seems to me a
fundamental dishonesty, a true violation of any pact with the reader, even with
the self. It&#8217;s a betrayal of the world of objects &amp; of the objective. Such
poetry is founded on precisely the dynamics that render the most critical
elements of the world invisible. So when I take exception to the writing of a
Robert Lowell or a Phil Levine or a Linda Gregg or an Alfred Corn, it&#8217;s really
an allegiance to that ten year old boy I once was to which I continue to stand
fast. I won&#8217;t betray him by creating a false world, a poetry of lies. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">Against this I would pose
Francis Ponge&#8217;s uses of the object as exemplary. His use of soap, his
elaboration of fauna. His insistence on the thingness of things. To this I
would add the thingness of words, their literal immanence, which is what I get
out of Stein and so much of the best writing of the past thirty years. This has
very little to do with any grounding of the abstract. Rather, I see it as an
issue of being present in my own life. This is how poetry matters.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<h2 class='date-header'><span>Sunday, October 13, 2002</span></h2>

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<span style="font-family: Arial;">I&#8217;ve made caustic comments
here about a few poets whom I&#8217;ve associated with the tradition I&#8217;ve
characterized (to borrow from Edgar </span><st1:personname><span style="font-family: Arial;">Allan</span></st1:personname><span style="font-family: Arial;"> Poe) as the school of quietude, that tendency within American letters
that envisions poetry in the United States as continuous with (&amp; mostly
derivative from) verse in the British Isles, and especially from the most
conservative elements there. So the question naturally arises: are there
conservative poets whose work I genuinely like? <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">The answer is yes. I think
Hart Crane&#8217;s <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Bridge </i>a master work
of American poetry. There are aspects of Wallace <span class="GramE">Stevens</span>
work that I like, even though he suffers from being so overrated by his
advocates. Ditto the early Eliot, though the canonization process is not nearly
what it was when I was in college, mercifully. I&#8217;ve been reading Jack Gilbert
and Robert Hass with interest &amp; even passion for over 30 years*, have
always thought Berryman&#8217;s <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Dream Songs</i>,
<span class="SpellE">Plath&#8217;s</span> <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Ariel, </i>John
Logan&#8217;s <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Zigzag Walk</i> and even <span class="SpellE">Merwin&#8217;s</span> <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Lice</i>
admirable. There are elements in Robert Lowell&#8217;s best writing that suggest that
he had the potential to have been another Frank O&#8217;Hara had he not been so
horrifically dysfunctional, aesthetically as well as emotionally. Alan Dugan is
a guilty pleasure. And Wendell Berry is a <span class="GramE">poet</span> for
whom the term conservative should be understood literally, in the very best
sense. The values he espouses in his poetry &amp; life seem to me to fit
together seamlessly. So when I come down harshly on a poet such as Richard
Wakefield, it&#8217;s because he writes so ineffectively: his sense of metrics could
only be characterized as plodding and bungled. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">On my desk is a manuscript
for a book entitled <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Calendars</i> by
Annie Finch that Tupelo Press will be printing sometime soon. It&#8217;s a marvelous
manuscript by a poet who could easily be taken for one of the New Formalists,
in the Timothy Steele vein, but who is also, I would argue, a formalist in the
tradition, say, of Bernadette Mayer &amp; Lee Ann Brown. Which is to say: <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">she gets it</i>. Her commitment is to the
language, even as the strategies she deploys are most often taken from oldest
playbook there is. At times, as in the poem &#8220;Moon,&#8221; her work reminds me of <span class="SpellE">H.D.&#8217;s</span> sense of timing, so very deliberate &amp; ordered:<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">Then
are you the dense everywhere that moves<span class="GramE">,</span><br />
the dark matter they haven&#8217;t yet walked through?<br />
<br />
(No, I&#8217;m not, I&#8217;m just the shining sun<span class="GramE">,</span><br />
sometimes covered up by the darkness.)<br />
<br />
But in your beauty &#8211; yes, I know you see &#8211;<br />
There is no covering, no constant light.<br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" />
&lt;![if !supportLineBreakNewLine]&gt;<br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" />
&lt;![endif]&gt;<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">That supplemental <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">yes</i> in the last couplet, the fact that
the final syllable in each line articulates a phonemic openness, except for the
last, even the use of the capital letter at the start of the final line (but
not in the final line of the other stanzas), all demonstrate a control over the
materials at hand that is extraordinary. That <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">yes </i>functions as though it were a sigh, modulating &amp; <span class="GramE">redirecting<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>the</span>
timing of the work away from dialog &amp; toward conclusion. It&#8217;s a device that
I&#8217;ve often been suspicious of &#8211; Josephine Miles, another traditionalist whose
work I take seriously, too often incorporated such asides just <span class="GramE">to</span> even out meter or complete an end-rhyme. Finch uses it
here to halt the flow of the text, to gather the language up into an expression
of breath. It is no accident that every word in that aside uses exactly one
syllable** or that there are no hard consonants there &#8211; the only moment in this
six-line text where either of these conditions applies. I love it when someone
can demonstrate such mastery in such a compact terrain.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">I want to quote one other
short poem here, my favorite, because of the way in which it blends an
over-the-top sense of language&#8217;s lushness with a tone so soft it all but
whispers. It&#8217;s called &#8220;Butterfly Lullaby.&#8221;<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">My
wild indigo dusky wing<br />
my mottled, broad-wing skipper<span class="GramE">,</span><br />
a sleepy, dreamy dusty wing,<br />
flying through my night.<br />
<br />
My northern, southern, cloudy wing<span class="GramE">,</span><br />
my spring azure, my crescent pearl,<br />
a silver-spotted, sweet question mark,<br />
sleeping in my sky.<br />
<br />
A tiger swallowtail, harvester<span class="GramE">,</span><br />
moving through my hours,<br />
an eyed brown in the redwing dark,<br />
wrapped softly in my words.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">We haven&#8217;t had a poet so
capable of combining control &amp; excess since the young Robert Duncan.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 10.0pt;">* I have a
theory that Jack&#8217;s animated &amp; public distaste for langpo has to do with the
fact that he <span class="GramE">himself,</span> were he younger, would have been
one. This is, after all, the man who once wrote (quoting from memory here):
&#8220;Helot for what time there is in the <span class="SpellE">baptist</span> hegemony
of death.&#8221;<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 10.0pt;">** Shades
again of H.D. and even of Lew Welch.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<h2>Silliman Sites</h2>
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<li><a href='http://www.poets.org/poet.php/prmPID/1544'>Academy of American Poets</a></li>
<li><a href='http://epc.buffalo.edu/authors/silliman'>Electronic Poetry Center</a></li>
<li><a href='http://www.facebook.com/ron.silliman'>Facebook</a></li>
<li><a href='http://www.goodreads.com/search/search%3Fsearch_type%3Dbooks%26search%5Bquery%5D%3Dron%2Bsilliman'>GoodReads</a></li>
<li><a href='http://www.english.illinois.edu/maps/poets/s_z/silliman/silliman.htm'>Modern American Poetry</a></li>
<li><a href='http://writing.upenn.edu/pennsound/x/Silliman.php'>PennSound</a></li>
<li><a href='http://www.pcah.us/the-center/grants-awarded/grantees-1998-ron-silliman/'>Pew Fellowships in the Arts</a></li>
<li><a href='http://www.poetryfoundation.org/archive/poet.html?id=6323'>Poetry Foundation</a></li>
<li><a href='http://ronsillimanbibliography.blogspot.com/'>Silliman's Bibliography</a></li>
<li><a href='http://www.spdbooks.org/Search/Default.aspx?AuthorName=Ron+Silliman'>Small Press Distribution</a></li>
<li><a href='http://eclipsearchive.org/projects/TOTTELS/'>Tottel's</a></li>
<li><a href='http://twitter.com/ronsilliman'>Twitter</a></li>
<li><a href='http://www.ubu.com/contemp/silliman/index.html'>Ubuweb</a></li>
<li><a href='https://library.ucsd.edu/speccoll/findingaids/mss0075.html'>UC San Diego Archives</a></li>
<li><a href='http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ron_Silliman'>Wikipedia</a></li>
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<h2 class='title'>Ketjak</h2>
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<a href="http://www.ucpress.edu/books/pages/10742.php">I: The Age of Huts<br /><br /></a>             <a href="http://www.ucpress.edu/books/pages/10742.php"><img src="https://writing.upenn.edu/epc/mirrors/ronsilliman.blogspot.com/images/lh6.googleusercontent.com/proxy/u_VsYLU9NS_tJXOrl6A4RM1Dne7QkuSslpBc0StgKSXXoIDStYoXqSwDo2tuxST00QD3ynVJH4yjAhcEzTWyM0F_RriCRx9yZdyygceY2wm-%3Ds0-d" /></a><br /><br /><br />II: Tjanting<br /><br /><a href="https://www.saltpublishing.com/products/tjanting-9781876857196"><img src="https://writing.upenn.edu/epc/mirrors/ronsilliman.blogspot.com/images/lh4.googleusercontent.com/proxy/efy1lIcVIKeKSdy_WUDIxV8WLN0OJmA3f7enQ2XDwxwt7Bh5ssfQQAkW_o4oG6FqrB1RGf7CX-Rw-VQ4u36RIuwSsCMxWjjHFDP4c7CbW2d_%3Ds0-d" /></a><br /><br /><br /><a href="http://www.uapress.ua.edu/product/Alphabet,1897.aspx">III: The Alphabet<br /><br /></a><a href="http://www.uapress.ua.edu/product/Alphabet,1897.aspx"><img id="ctl00_MainContent_ProductInfo1_ctl00_PrimaryImage_PrimaryImage" onclick="javascript:window.open(&#39;http://www.uapress.ua.edu//images/temp/212-1897-Product_LargeToMediumImage.jpeg&#39;, 1, &#39;resizable=1, width=500, height=700&#39;)" src="https://writing.upenn.edu/epc/mirrors/ronsilliman.blogspot.com/images/lh3.googleusercontent.com/proxy/OnaMjXm2h6XxneM04RgHx1Bkf2Wi9UE3a8c3o0NDvW5wXo7BK3MaM5VP9YfbEIpHYxAstTorwhNW4lhhkNuua5bDX7Ogr2UgZ1NMDDjeh-0bNnuo-WH-9pGHIR6lv-4-_UDHVNe36xB6%3Ds0-d" style="border: 1px solid Gray;" /></a><br /><div><br /></div><div>IV. from Universe</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>
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<h2 class='title'>Other Books in Print</h2>
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<span style="font-weight: bold;">MEMOIRS &amp; COLLABORATIONS</span><br /><a href="https://www.amazon.com/Leningrad-American-Writers-Soviet-Union/dp/1562790056">Leningrad</a><br /><a href="http://www.thegrandpiano.org/">The Grand Piano</a><br /><a href="https://www.saltpublishing.com/products/under-albany-9781844710515">Under Albany</a><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">CRITICISM</span><br /><a href="http://www.spdbooks.org/Producte/0937804207/the-new-sentence.aspx">The New Sentence</a><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">ANTHOLOGY</span><br /><a href="https://secure.touchnet.com/C22921_ustores/web/classic/product_detail.jsp?PRODUCTID=327&SINGLESTORE=true">In The American Tree</a><br /><br /><br /><br />
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<br /><img alt="" src="file%3A///Users/Lynn/Desktop/silliman2a.jpg" / /><img alt="" src="file%3A///Users/Lynn/Library/Caches/TemporaryItems/moz-screenshot.png" / /><span style="color: #990000; font-weight: bold;">RON SILLIMAN</span> has written and edited 40 books, and had his poetry and criticism translated into 16 languages. Silliman was a 2012 Kelly Writers House Fellow, the 2010 recipient of the Levinson Prize from the Poetry Foundation, a 2003 Literary Fellow of the National Endowment for the Arts, a 2002 Fellow of the Pennsylvania Arts Council, and a 1998 Pew Fellow in the Arts. Silliman has a plaque in the walk dedicated to poetry in his home town of Berkeley and a sculpture in the Transit Center of Bury, Lancaster, a part of the Irwell Sculpture Trail. He lives in Chester County, Pennsylvania and teaches at the University of Pennsylvania.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />(c) 2002-2019 by Ron Silliman.
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