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Showing posts with label <b>George Stanley</b>. <a href="https://writing.upenn.edu/epc/mirrors/ronsilliman.blogspot.com/">Show all posts</a>
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Innovations from <a href="http://cascadiapoetryfestival.org/"><span style="color: #0d0d0d; mso-style-textfill-fill-alpha: 100.0%; mso-style-textfill-fill-color: #0D0D0D; mso-style-textfill-fill-colortransforms: &quot;lumm=95000 lumo=5000&quot;; mso-style-textfill-fill-themecolor: text1; mso-themecolor: text1; mso-themetint: 242;">Here</span></a></span></i></b><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="color: #0d0d0d; font-family: &quot;Arial&quot;,&quot;sans-serif&quot;; font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 200%; mso-style-textfill-fill-alpha: 100.0%; mso-style-textfill-fill-color: #0D0D0D; mso-style-textfill-fill-colortransforms: &quot;lumm=95000 lumo=5000&quot;; mso-style-textfill-fill-themecolor: text1; mso-themecolor: text1; mso-themetint: 242;"><br />
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<a href="http://epc.buffalo.edu/authors/kyger/"><span style="color: #0d0d0d; mso-style-textfill-fill-alpha: 100.0%; mso-style-textfill-fill-color: #0D0D0D; mso-style-textfill-fill-colortransforms: &quot;lumm=95000 lumo=5000&quot;; mso-style-textfill-fill-themecolor: text1; mso-themecolor: text1; mso-themetint: 242;">Joanne</span></a>
<a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Joanne_Kyger"><span style="color: #0d0d0d; mso-style-textfill-fill-alpha: 100.0%; mso-style-textfill-fill-color: #0D0D0D; mso-style-textfill-fill-colortransforms: &quot;lumm=95000 lumo=5000&quot;; mso-style-textfill-fill-themecolor: text1; mso-themecolor: text1; mso-themetint: 242;">Kyger</span></a><br />
<a href="http://jacketmagazine.com/27/bell-heuv.html"><span style="color: #0d0d0d; mso-style-textfill-fill-alpha: 100.0%; mso-style-textfill-fill-color: #0D0D0D; mso-style-textfill-fill-colortransforms: &quot;lumm=95000 lumo=5000&quot;; mso-style-textfill-fill-themecolor: text1; mso-themecolor: text1; mso-themetint: 242;">Jeanne</span></a>
<a href="http://www.uwb.edu/ias/faculty-and-staff/jeanneheuving"><span style="color: #0d0d0d; mso-style-textfill-fill-alpha: 100.0%; mso-style-textfill-fill-color: #0D0D0D; mso-style-textfill-fill-colortransforms: &quot;lumm=95000 lumo=5000&quot;; mso-style-textfill-fill-themecolor: text1; mso-themecolor: text1; mso-themetint: 242;">Heuving</span></a><br />
<a href="https://www.facebook.com/stephen.collis.9"><span style="color: #0d0d0d; mso-style-textfill-fill-alpha: 100.0%; mso-style-textfill-fill-color: #0D0D0D; mso-style-textfill-fill-colortransforms: &quot;lumm=95000 lumo=5000&quot;; mso-style-textfill-fill-themecolor: text1; mso-themecolor: text1; mso-themetint: 242;">Stephen</span></a>
<a href="http://epc.buffalo.edu/authors/collis/"><span style="color: #0d0d0d; mso-style-textfill-fill-alpha: 100.0%; mso-style-textfill-fill-color: #0D0D0D; mso-style-textfill-fill-colortransforms: &quot;lumm=95000 lumo=5000&quot;; mso-style-textfill-fill-themecolor: text1; mso-themecolor: text1; mso-themetint: 242;">Collis</span></a><br />
<a href="http://www.spdbooks.org/Search/Default.aspx?AuthorName=george+stanley"><span style="color: #0d0d0d; mso-style-textfill-fill-alpha: 100.0%; mso-style-textfill-fill-color: #0D0D0D; mso-style-textfill-fill-colortransforms: &quot;lumm=95000 lumo=5000&quot;; mso-style-textfill-fill-themecolor: text1; mso-themecolor: text1; mso-themetint: 242;">George</span></a>
<a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/George_Stanley_%28poet%29"><span style="color: #0d0d0d; mso-style-textfill-fill-alpha: 100.0%; mso-style-textfill-fill-color: #0D0D0D; mso-style-textfill-fill-colortransforms: &quot;lumm=95000 lumo=5000&quot;; mso-style-textfill-fill-themecolor: text1; mso-themecolor: text1; mso-themetint: 242;">Stanley</span></a></span></b><span style="color: #0d0d0d; font-family: &quot;Arial&quot;,&quot;sans-serif&quot;; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 200%; mso-style-textfill-fill-alpha: 100.0%; mso-style-textfill-fill-color: #0D0D0D; mso-style-textfill-fill-colortransforms: &quot;lumm=95000 lumo=5000&quot;; mso-style-textfill-fill-themecolor: text1; mso-themecolor: text1; mso-themetint: 242;"></span></div>
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<a class='timestamp-link' href='https://writing.upenn.edu/epc/mirrors/ronsilliman.blogspot.com/2014/08/14_18.html' rel='bookmark' title='permanent link'><abbr class='published' itemprop='datePublished' title='2014-08-18T00:00:00-04:00'>Monday, August 18, 2014</abbr></a>
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<h2 class='date-header'><span>Friday, November 04, 2011</span></h2>

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<p class=MsoNormal align=center style='text-align:center;line-height:150%'><a href="http://farm7.static.flickr.com/6038/6246963196_ab314e60d8_o.jpg"><span style='font-size:12.0pt;line-height:150%;color:black;mso-themecolor:text1; mso-no-proof:yes;text-decoration:none;text-underline:none'><img border="0" height="176" src="https://writing.upenn.edu/epc/mirrors/ronsilliman.blogspot.com/images/lh6.googleusercontent.com/proxy/Qnd0yVIbKW5bB_HnpqcBQt6eUulre8NeDyFk2D254hI3NE_C1yaaxF86amBwoCAZWfXW2VyGJ2XblyHHWuEMTH0Uok9VnBuqQLDNXVcm-y8NkmA%3Ds0-d" width="234"></span></a><span style='font-size: 12.0pt;line-height:150%;color:black;mso-themecolor:text1'><span style='mso-spacerun:yes'> </span><span style='mso-spacerun:yes'> </span></span><a href="http://farm7.static.flickr.com/6234/6246436771_df18de8da2_o.jpg"><span style='font-size:12.0pt;line-height:150%;color:black;mso-themecolor:text1; mso-no-proof:yes;text-decoration:none;text-underline:none'><img border="0" height="174" src="https://writing.upenn.edu/epc/mirrors/ronsilliman.blogspot.com/images/lh3.googleusercontent.com/proxy/VgJkX8oyLYjRZOpyhI92NtUnJkK_TVixtBCmJICEDUgPVwBIKd0dqLX8JJDKqUx6q_C1mF4oddRNYIL4vFxuo1v9CbyY_A-outuUK8mHEn6vAck%3Ds0-d" width="182"></span></a><span style='font-size: 12.0pt;line-height:150%;color:black;mso-themecolor:text1'><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class=MsoNormal align=center style='text-align:center;line-height:150%'><span style='font-size:12.0pt;line-height:150%;color:black;mso-themecolor:text1'><a href="https://diva.sfsu.edu/bundles/191195/49783/contents/59072"><span style='color:black;mso-themecolor:text1'>Ebbe Borregaard</span></a> &amp; <a href="https://diva.sfsu.edu/bundles/191195/49783/contents/59073"><span style='color:black;mso-themecolor:text1'>George Stanley</span></a><br> reading at the Poetry Center<br> San Francisco State<br> March 15, 1958<o:p></o:p></span></p>
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<h2 class='date-header'><span>Thursday, October 23, 2008</span></h2>

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<p class=MsoNormal style='margin-bottom:12.0pt'><img height="287" id="_x0000_i1025" src="https://writing.upenn.edu/epc/mirrors/ronsilliman.blogspot.com/images/lh6.googleusercontent.com/proxy/ejIhe82sTL4qHIog6J4w4Ew_tRrNbtVwIehd5p-Xo_76aW1scf3zH_8xnu5JFsa-QRN4C1cLEDUrvzV8TQN8LRP2XtGQKBfvVcf7XB1EnCBAwPE%3Ds0-d" width="185"></p>

<p class=MsoNormal style='margin-bottom:12.0pt'><span style='font-size:10.0pt;font-family:Arial;color:black'>In his Pulitzer-winning <i style='mso-bidi-font-style:normal'>Guns, Germs and Steel, </i>evolutionary biologist <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Jared_Diamond"><span style='color:black'>Jared Diamond</span></a> argues persuasively &#8211; overwhelmingly &#8211; for the role of geography as the single most important aspect of the physical world on this planet, not just for nature, but for human society as well. For example, the domestication of animals is a phenomenon that moves East &amp; West, not North &amp; South. The taming of the horse ensured travel from the westernmost shores of <st1:country-region w:st="on">Frances</st1:country-region> to the eastern shores of <st1:country-region w:st="on">China</st1:country-region> &amp; <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:country-region w:st="on">Russia</st1:country-region></st1:place>. Yet the one animal domesticated in South America, the llama, had no such impact on the North American continent &#8211; only in the past century has it really been able to be transported beyond the <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:country-region w:st="on">Panama</st1:country-region></st1:place> isthmus in any numbers at all. All the hyperbole Charles Olson used to employ about the role of space as a defining condition of life on our continent turns out to be true.&#185;<o:p></o:p></span></p>

<p class=MsoNormal style='margin-bottom:12.0pt'><st1:place w:st="on"><st1:City  w:st="on"><span style='font-size:10.0pt;font-family:Arial;color:black'>Vancouver</span></st1:City></st1:place><span style='font-size:10.0pt;font-family:Arial;color:black'>, by definition, is the Canadian Southwest. Only Vancouver Island, on which sits the capital of <st1:State w:st="on">British Columbia</st1:State>, <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:State w:st="on">Victoria</st1:State></st1:place>, lies further to the southwest. The whole notion of &#8220;southwest&#8221; in the <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:country-region w:st="on">United States</st1:country-region></st1:place> conveys an ensemble of images &amp; connotations: sun, warmth, the visible presence of Native and foreign cultures along its southern border, the newness of cities. That last one is worth considering. <st1:City w:st="on">Vancouver</st1:City> turns out to be a newer city than <st1:City w:st="on">San Diego</st1:City>, <st1:City w:st="on">Los Angeles</st1:City>, or even <st1:City w:st="on">Portland</st1:City> or <st1:City w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Seattle</st1:place></st1:City>. Initially scouted out by the ill-fated British explorer George Vancouver &amp; later by the trader Simon Fraser around the turn of the 19<sup>th</sup> century, <st1:City w:st="on">Vancouver</st1:City> itself was not settled until the early 1860s after the discovery of gold along the <st1:PlaceName w:st="on">Fraser</st1:PlaceName> <st1:PlaceName w:st="on">River</st1:PlaceName> brought a raft of disappointed prospectors up from the hills of the Sierra in <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:State w:st="on">California</st1:State></st1:place>. Strictly speaking, <st1:City w:st="on">Vancouver</st1:City> is newer than all of the towns of <st1:place w:st="on">Silicon Valley</st1:place>, the technological apotheosis of Pound&#8217;s modernist dictum: <i style='mso-bidi-font-style:normal'>Make it New.<o:p></o:p></i></span></p>

<p class=MsoNormal style='margin-bottom:12.0pt'><span style='font-size:10.0pt;font-family:Arial;color:black'>I mention this because <i style='mso-bidi-font-style:normal'>that</i> Vancouver is absent entirely from George Stanley&#8217;s long poem<i style='mso-bidi-font-style:normal'> <a href="http://newstarbooks.com/view-book.asp?id=1554200385&amp;c="><span style='color:black'>Vancouver: A Poem</span></a>, </i>published earlier this year by New Star Books, which operates jointly out of Vancouver and Point Robert, Washington. Composed over an eight-year period and openly modeled after William Carlos Williams&#8217; <i style='mso-bidi-font-style:normal'>Paterson &#8211; </i>or perhaps I should say <i style='mso-bidi-font-style:normal'>originally modeled </i>&#8211; <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:City w:st="on"><i style='mso-bidi-font-style:normal'>Vancouver</i></st1:City></st1:place><i style='mso-bidi-font-style:normal'> </i>is only incidentally about the city &amp; far more a phenomenology of age. Everything in <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:City w:st="on"><i style='mso-bidi-font-style:normal'>Vancouver</i></st1:City></st1:place><i style='mso-bidi-font-style:normal'>, </i>starting with the city but more crucially including its author/narrator, is O.L.D. I almost want to get out some ice sculpture lettering a la <a href="http://epc.buffalo.edu/authors/bernstein/blog/images/democracy.jpg"><span style='color:black'>Ligorano/Reese</span></a> to make my point. <o:p></o:p></span></p>

<p class=MsoNormal style='margin-bottom:12.0pt'><span style='font-size:10.0pt;font-family:Arial;color:black'>A decade ago, that conclusion might have struck me as a negative one, as I suspect it will no doubt strike some of the readers here. That I don&#8217;t now may be because I&#8217;m finally in my sixties, just a couple of years younger than <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:City w:st="on">Stanley</st1:City></st1:place> was when he started this project. There are relatively few major poets who have begun anything approximating long poems after the age of 60, and most of them were Objectivists. One notable non-Objectivist, John Berryman, in his <i style='mso-bidi-font-style:normal'>Paris Review </i>interview, speaks movingly of the idea, but then he killed himself at the age of 58. Louis Zukofsky&#8217;s <i style='mso-bidi-font-style:normal'>80 Flowers, </i>which is really a poetic series, was written between the ages of 70 &amp; 74. Basil Bunting&#8217;s <i style='mso-bidi-font-style:normal'>Briggflatts, </i>a &#8220;long&#8221; poem only insofar as its extraordinary concentration of energy has an impact of a work several times its 20 pages, was written in his 65<sup>th</sup> year. Charles Reznikoff published the first volume of <i style='mso-bidi-font-style:normal'>As Testimony </i>at the age of 69, tho obviously he had been working on it for some time. He was 81 when <i style='mso-bidi-font-style:normal'>Holocaust </i>appeared. George Oppen, the youngest of the Objectivists, was 60 when <i style='mso-bidi-font-style:normal'>Of Being Numerous </i>appeared. And of course William Carlos Williams, more a mentor to, than a member of, the Objectivists, was 63 when the first volume of <i>Paterson</i> appeared in 1946.<o:p></o:p></span></p>

<p class=MsoNormal style='margin-bottom:12.0pt'><span style='font-size:10.0pt;font-family:Arial;color:black'>Even more than Marianne Moore, Williams was the great American modernist poet who never left home. Though he wrote important works occasioned by his travels to cities as diverse as Paris &amp; El Paso, <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:City w:st="on"><i style='mso-bidi-font-style:normal'>Paterson</i></st1:City></st1:place><i style='mso-bidi-font-style:normal'> </i>is the record of a man settled in a single town his entire life. Its insistence on place as a counterbalance to Pound&#8217;s fantasy of history as the grounds for an epic is one of that poem&#8217;s most important literary claims. <o:p></o:p></span></p>

<p class=MsoNormal style='margin-bottom:12.0pt'><st1:City w:st="on"><span  style='font-size:10.0pt;font-family:Arial;color:black'>Stanley</span></st1:City><span style='font-size:10.0pt;font-family:Arial;color:black'>&#8217;s relationship to <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:City w:st="on">Vancouver</st1:City></st1:place>, the city, is quite different. A native San Franciscan in the Spicer Circle, he, Robin Blaser &amp; Stan Persky all moved to British Columbia in the years immediately following Spicer&#8217;s death. At rather this same time, <st1:City w:st="on">Stanley</st1:City> also had something of a conversion experience that he relates to meeting the Irish (now Irish-American) poet Jim Liddy, who taught at <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:PlaceName w:st="on">San Francisco</st1:PlaceName> <st1:PlaceType w:st="on">State</st1:PlaceType></st1:place> in 1966 &amp; &#8217;67. Liddy never met Spicer but was overwhelmed by the experience of the poems he was then able to find in print, while at the same time introducing <st1:City w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Stanley</st1:place></st1:City> to the work of his own chief influence, Patrick Kavanagh. As <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:City w:st="on">Stanley</st1:City></st1:place> tells it, the two poets traded Gods. In <st1:City w:st="on">Stanley</st1:City>&#8217;s case, this offered him a new freedom as a poet, much in the way <st1:State w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">British Columbia</st1:place></st1:State> offered him a new landscape.<o:p></o:p></span></p>

<p class=MsoNormal style='margin-bottom:12.0pt'><span style='font-size:10.0pt;font-family:Arial;color:black'>Yet unlike Blaser, say, <st1:City w:st="on">Stanley</st1:City> didn&#8217;t become a <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:City w:st="on">Vancouver</st1:City></st1:place> poet as such, precisely because his work, much of it as an itinerant Poet-in-the-Schools in the northern reaches of the province. One never senses in <st1:City w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Stanley</st1:place></st1:City>&#8217;s writing that this was part of a back-to-nature program a la Gary Snyder. My take is that <st1:City w:st="on">Stanley</st1:City> remained a city poet at a distance, maintaining an ambiguous relationship to <st1:City w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Vancouver</st1:place></st1:City> until he was able to secure a teaching job there at an age when many men retire. <o:p></o:p></span></p>

<p class=MsoNormal style='margin-bottom:12.0pt'><span style='font-size:10.0pt;font-family:Arial;color:black'>So what we have here is a very different document than we would have had if, say, longtime residents like George Bowering or Gerry Gilbert had penned such a book. It&#8217;s not the chronicle of a man who has spent fifty years or more crossing the same bridges daily. At the same time, it <i style='mso-bidi-font-style:normal'>is</i> the work of a writer who has had some kind of relation to <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:City w:st="on">Vancouver</st1:City></st1:place> now for over four decades. The ambivalence shows, even to the book&#8217;s cover, a photograph of a man (not Stanley) walking along an otherwise deserted street in front of what appears to be an empty industrial shop front, no product visible in the darkened window, graffiti tagging the metal doors. Because of earthquakes, brick hasn&#8217;t been used for construction on the west coast since the 1920s&#178; which means that this building was constructed when <st1:City w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Vancouver</st1:place></st1:City> itself could not have been much more than 30 years old. <o:p></o:p></span></p>

<p class=MsoNormal style='margin-bottom:12.0pt'><span style='font-size:10.0pt;font-family:Arial;color:black'>What we get, often, is a litany of what used to be where: the Caprice Lounge once was the Caprice Theater, Granville Books is gone, &#8220;the 900 block where Blaine Culling once planned to open two grand restaurants, one Mexican, one Russian,&#8221; and inevitably the names of friends now departed. And that&#8217;s just pages 105 &amp; 106. Young as it is, <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:City w:st="on">Vancouver</st1:City></st1:place> can be, if you look at it right, a city of ghosts. <o:p></o:p></span></p>

<p class=MsoNormal style='margin-bottom:12.0pt'><span style='font-size:10.0pt;font-family:Arial;color:black'>Age is of course relative. You can find artifacts in the <st1:PlaceName w:st="on">Cluny</st1:PlaceName> <st1:PlaceType w:st="on">Museum</st1:PlaceType> from the settlement that became <st1:City w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Paris</st1:place></st1:City> that are 2,000 years old. Any book of the East Coast of the <st1:country-region w:st="on">United States</st1:country-region>, as both <st1:City w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on"><i style='mso-bidi-font-style:normal'>Paterson</i></st1:place></st1:City><i style='mso-bidi-font-style:normal'> </i>&amp; the Gloucester of Olson&#8217;s <i style='mso-bidi-font-style:normal'>Maximus </i>attest, inevitably must address questions of history. <st1:City w:st="on"><i style='mso-bidi-font-style:normal'>Vancouver</i></st1:City><i style='mso-bidi-font-style:normal'>, </i>in contrast, is an infinitely more personal account even than <st1:City w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on"><i style='mso-bidi-font-style:normal'>Paterson</i></st1:place></st1:City><i style='mso-bidi-font-style:normal'>. </i>And that&#8217;s precisely where its importance lies. As Stanley himself seems to grasp. It&#8217;s a question he confronts most directly in a poem within this poem entitled &#8220;Phantoms&#8221; on the subject, of all things, of masturbation &#8211; &#8220;Wanking&#8221; in <st1:City w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Stanley</st1:place></st1:City>&#8217;s vocabulary, deliberately using the Britishism to avoid the associations that other terms carry with them. He quotes a poem on the same subject that Ginsberg wrote at the age of 70, regaling in its memory of all the imagined young men he&#8217;d once slept with.<o:p></o:p></span></p>

<p class=MsoNormal style='margin-top:0in;margin-right:0in;margin-bottom:12.0pt;margin-left:.5in'><span style='font-size:10.0pt;font-family:Verdana;mso-bidi-font-family:Arial;color:black'>The shame &amp; defiance I feel<br>
are my own, not language&#8217;s &#8211;<br>
&#8211; and to be so dismissive,<br>
nay, intolerant of the phantoms &#8211;<br>
<br>
helpless (yes!) half-beings<br>
that one must oneself become<br>
<br>
a half-being<br>
to touch<o:p></o:p></span></p>

<p class=MsoNormal style='margin-bottom:12.0pt'><span style='font-size:10.0pt;font-family:Arial;color:black'>This is a book that might have been subtitled <i style='mso-bidi-font-style:normal'>Half-being and Nothingness. </i>It stares directly into that abyss, using the city of <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:City
 w:st="on">Vancouver</st1:City></st1:place> as its lens. <o:p></o:p></span></p>

<p class=MsoNormal style='margin-bottom:12.0pt'><span style='font-size:10.0pt;font-family:Arial;color:black'>Stanley</span><span style='font-size:10.0pt;font-family:Arial;color:black'> is not without humor here. Indeed, right after &#8220;Phantoms&#8221; comes &#8220;Seniors&#8221; &#8211; the title piece of a suite within this poem &#8211; that reads<o:p></o:p></span></p>

<p class=MsoNormal style='margin-top:0in;margin-right:0in;margin-bottom:12.0pt;margin-left:.5in'><span style='font-size:10.0pt;font-family:Verdana;color:black'>Seniors know everything.<br>
Correction. Each senior knows everything.<br>
The others don&#8217;t want to hear about it.<o:p></o:p></span></p>

<p class=MsoNormal style='margin-bottom:12.0pt'><span style='font-size:10.0pt;font-family:Arial;color:black'>It&#8217;s inevitable, what with &#8220;modern medicine&#8221; &amp; more importantly postmodern longevity, that we are about to see a renaissance of good, even great books on precisely the topic of aging. Hettie Jones&#8217; <i style='mso-bidi-font-style:normal'>Doing 70 </i>certainly sounded that alarum a couple of years back. <st1:City w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on"><i style='mso-bidi-font-style:normal'>Vancouver</i></st1:place></st1:City><i style='mso-bidi-font-style:normal'>: A Poem </i>is a complex meditation &amp; an interesting counterpoint to her work. It expands the grounds of what&#8217;s possible here &amp; is one of the most moving books I&#8217;ll read all year. <o:p></o:p></span></p>

<p class=MsoNormal style='margin-bottom:12.0pt'><span style='font-size:10.0pt;font-family:Arial;color:black'><o:p>&nbsp;</o:p></span></p>

<p class=MsoNormal style='margin-bottom:6.0pt'><span style='font-size:8.0pt;font-family:Arial;color:black'>&#185; Thus Olson begins <i style='mso-bidi-font-style:normal'>Call Me Ishmael,</i> the groundbreaking study of Melville that inaugurates his career,<span style='mso-spacerun:yes'>&#160; </span>with <o:p></o:p></span></p>

<p class=MsoNormal style='margin-top:0in;margin-right:.5in;margin-bottom:6.0pt;margin-left:.5in'><span style='font-size:8.0pt;font-family:Verdana;mso-bidi-font-family:Arial'>I take SPACE to be the central fact to man born in <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:country-region w:st="on">America</st1:country-region></st1:place>, from Folsom Cave to now. I spell it large because it comes large here. Large, and without mercy.<o:p></o:p></span></p>

<p class=MsoNormal style='margin-bottom:12.0pt'><span style='font-size:8.0pt;font-family:Arial'>It&#8217;s worth noting here that <i style='mso-bidi-font-style:normal'>Ishmael </i>is published <i style='mso-bidi-font-style:normal'>before </i>Williams begins work on <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:City w:st="on"><i style='mso-bidi-font-style:normal'>Paterson</i></st1:City></st1:place><i style='mso-bidi-font-style:normal'>. <o:p></o:p></i></span></p>

<p class=MsoNormal style='margin-bottom:12.0pt'><span style='font-size:8.0pt;font-family:Arial'>&#178; The mortar between the bricks invariably dries &amp; gets brittle, allowing the bricks to pop out, causing the floors to collapse, pancaking to the ground. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
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<h2 class='date-header'><span>Monday, December 16, 2002</span></h2>

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<span style="font-family: Arial;">Commenting upon George
Stanley&#8217;s excerpt from <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><a href="http://writing.upenn.edu/epc/mirrors/ronsilliman.blogspot.com/2002_12_01_ronsilliman_archive.html%2385889670">Vancouver</a></i>
in <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Poker </i>turned out to bring
goodies in time for the holiday season. </span><st1:personname><span style="font-family: Arial;">Kevin Davies</span></st1:personname><span style="font-family: Arial;"> sent me a copy of another excerpt from <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Book One</i> and I was directed to yet another
shining example in the new issue of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><a href="http://www.shampoopoetry.com/ShampooNine/stanley.html">Shampoo</a><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span></i>by <span class="GramE">editor</span> Del
Ray Cross. This last piece has two different descriptions of the late Angela
Bowering that make me envious of those who knew her, as well as further
confirmation of my theory of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Vancouver</i>
&amp; the poetry of transit. The poem also has<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp;
</span>a wonderful dictum that I suspect Stanley would like to believe &#8211; <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">write carelessly </i>&#8211; tho in fact he is one
of the great careful writers of our time.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp;
</span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">All of which made me think
of how we begin the longpoem, those of us who do write them, and that one of my
New Years Resolutions for 2003 is to read Rachel Blau DuPlessis&#8217; <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><a href="http://www.upne.com/0-8195-6485-0.html">Drafts 1-38, Toll</a> </i>with
the kind of long, slow, luxuriating attention that I believe it deserves. So I
got a jump on the new year and sat down &amp; read (reread, really) <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Draft 1: It, </i>first in the large Wesleyan
University Press edition, then in the even larger (at least in terms of page
size) <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Temblor 5</i> where I first
encountered this poem back in 1987. Way back when, I don&#8217;t think it struck me
how one of the keys to <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Drafts </i>was
(or, really, back then, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">would be</i>) how
each section always links to a title, most often (but not always) a single word<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">.</i> &#8220;Links to a title&#8221; may seem a funny
way of phrasing this, yet I sense that these are not titles in the same way
that, say, &#8220;The Multiversity&#8221; is the title for <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Passages 23</i> for Robert Duncan or <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Paradise</i> is the title of one section of my own <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Alphabet. </i>As I think becomes clear when reads DuPlessis, every word
for her is always provisional. The monumental aspect of poetry titles seems
something very different &#8211; and yet, these aren&#8217;t &#8220;captions&#8221; either, at least
not in the way that Benjamin distinguishes between those two categories, one
name the work, the other pulling out a highlight or foregrounding some element
within. My own sense here at least at this point, is that DuPlessis uses these
words &amp; phrases to identify territories in the vicinity of which the poems
then work. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">In 1987, I knew DuPlessis as
one of several poets whom I might characterize as post-Objectivist, a grouping
as diverse as John Taggart, Michael Heller &amp; Armand Schwerner. DuPlessis
was notable also for being the one woman who seemed actively drawn to this
literary tradition. But nothing in her (first?) book <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Wells</i> (<span class="SpellE">Montemora</span> Supplement, 1980)
prepared me for this suddenly expansive use of the page. Perhaps if I had read <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Gypsy / Moth</i></span> <span style="font-family: Arial;">(Coincidence Press, 1984) more attentively, I would
have realized that its title page, assigning the two poems of that volume to a
longer project, the &#8220;History of Poetry&#8221; (and with the word <s>Keats</s> both
printed and <span class="SpellE">X&#8217;d</span> out right in the center of the page),
was in fact announcing DuPlessis&#8217; taking on of something of greater scale, not
just in size but also in intellectual ambition. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">DuPlessis is more explicit
in <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Tabula Rosa </i>(Potes &amp; Poets,
1987), which includes 17 pieces from the &#8220;History of Poetry,&#8221; including the two
David Sheidlower had published in the earlier book. The section &#8211; it forms the
first half of the book &#8211; has an epigram that is telling: &#8220;She cannot forget the
history of poetry / because it is not hers.&#8221; That was the clearest statement
yet of DuPlessis&#8217; own sense of herself as writing as an outsider, a position
that will very much inform <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Drafts. </i>The
second half of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Tabula Rosa</i> is, in
fact, entitled &#8220;Drafts,&#8221; &amp; reprints the first two from <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Temblor</i>. But it also contains a serial poem, &#8220;Writing,&#8221; that, with
commentary, runs 30 pages, longer than the two sections of DuPlessis&#8217; new
longpoem. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">&#8220;Writing&#8217;s&#8221; ultimate
relation to <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Drafts </i>isn&#8217;t self-evident
&#8211; it&#8217;s not included here in the Wesleyan edition. Reading it, it feels (very
much as the &#8220;History of Poets&#8221; does for me also) as a necessary step for DuPlessis
to clear the ground on which she could begin the true longpoem. Already in
&#8220;Writing,&#8221; DuPlessis is moving away from standard type-driven forms.
Handwritten in one section are these sentiments: &#8220;wanting to have her book
virtually nameless / what is the most transparent name?&#8221; <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Tabula Rosa</i>, in spite of its pun, &#8220;Writing&#8221; and <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Drafts </i>all seem possible responses to
that question. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">Between <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Tabula Rosa </i>and the Wesleyan edition, DuPlessis will publish three
more collections of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Drafts: <o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt; margin-left: 1.0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo2; tab-stops: list 1.0in; text-indent: -.25in;">
&lt;![if !supportLists]&gt;<span style="font-family: Wingdings; mso-bidi-font-family: Wingdings; mso-fareast-font-family: Wingdings;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">&#167;<span style="font: 7.0pt &quot;Times New Roman&quot;;">&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;
</span></span></span>&lt;![endif]&gt;<span style="font-family: Arial;">A volume from
Potes &amp; Poets entitled <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Drafts</i>,
containing numbers 3 through 14<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt; margin-left: 1.0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo2; tab-stops: list 1.0in; text-indent: -.25in;">
&lt;![if !supportLists]&gt;<span style="font-family: Wingdings; mso-bidi-font-family: Wingdings; mso-fareast-font-family: Wingdings;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">&#167;<span style="font: 7.0pt &quot;Times New Roman&quot;;">&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;
</span></span></span>&lt;![endif]&gt;<span style="font-family: Arial;">A large &amp;
wonderfully designed Singing Horse Press edition of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Draft X: Letters</i><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt; margin-left: 1.0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo2; tab-stops: list 1.0in; text-indent: -.25in;">
&lt;![if !supportLists]&gt;<span style="font-family: Wingdings; mso-bidi-font-family: Wingdings; mso-fareast-font-family: Wingdings;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">&#167;<span style="font: 7.0pt &quot;Times New Roman&quot;;">&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;
</span></span></span>&lt;![endif]&gt;<span style="font-family: Arial;">Another volume
from Potes &amp; Poets entitled <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Drafts
1-XXX, <span class="GramE">The</span> Fold</i>.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">&#8220;It&#8221; is as contra-auspicious
a title one might propose for the opening of a longpoem, which is the point.
The poem itself begins with an initial &#8220;N.&#8221; that is then repeated, followed by
two hand drawn <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">N</i>s, large &amp;
asymmetrical, giving the page as much a sketch of a mountaintop (my immediate
thought, seeing them, was Wordsworth&#8217;s alps &#8211; Bunting&#8217;s version of same also &#8211;
although to a later reader the use of the hand here would no doubt call up Bob
Grenier&#8217;s own &#8220;scrawl&#8221; texts*), followed by a section divider, which in this
piece is a pair of equal signs. Thus signs &amp; sounds are all that we are
given in the very first section. There is not even one vowel. &amp; the
consonant chosen (no accident here) comes more than halfway through the
alphabet itself. There&#8217;s no way to make a word out of this, the way one could
stretch &#8220;m&#8221; into &#8220;<span class="SpellE">mmmmmm</span>.&#8221; The use of the period with
each &#8220;N&#8221; reinforces its &#8220;vocal but <span class="SpellE">subverbal</span>&#8221;
qualities, just as the mountain tops carry us back to a time when language is
as much picture as conventional representation of sound. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">Think of every longpoem you
have ever read &#8211; none has an opening passage even remotely like this. No jewels
&amp; diamonds, no round of fiddles, no going down to the ships. The closest I
can imagine is </span><st1:city><st1:place><span style="font-family: Arial;">Duncan</span></st1:place></st1:city><span style="font-family: Arial;">&#8217;s reference to a cat&#8217;s purr, but that is at the
start of the second <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Passages, </i>not the
first. So, even if we buy the scrawled <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">N</i>s
as mountain tops, any allusion to <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The
Prelude</i> is at best an echo that tugs ever so faintly in the work. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">The second passage is
everything the first one is not:<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .5in;">
<span class="GramE"><span style="font-family: Arial;">and</span></span><span style="font-family: Arial;">
something spinning in the bushes<span style="mso-tab-count: 3;">&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; </span>the
past<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 3;">&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; </span><span class="GramE">dismembered</span><span style="mso-tab-count: 3;">&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; </span>sweetest<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;">&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; </span><span class="GramE">dizzy</span> chunk
of song<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">Here
suddenly we have miracles, memory, history, fragmentation, qualities, <span class="GramE">the</span> whole idea that song, for example, might be
characterized as a &#8220;dizzy chunk.&#8221; When I get to this moment, I do in fact hear
an echo from the start of a longpoem, but on a very different order: <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt; margin-left: .5in; margin-right: .5in; margin-top: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">I thought that if I could put
it all down, that would be one way. And next the thought came to me that to
leave all out would be <span class="GramE">another,</span> and truer way.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt; margin-left: .5in; margin-right: .5in; margin-top: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt; margin-left: .5in; margin-right: .5in; margin-top: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; </span><span class="GramE">clean-washed</span>
sea<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt; margin-left: .5in; margin-right: .5in; margin-top: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div align="right" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt; margin-left: .5in; margin-right: .5in; margin-top: 0in; text-align: right;">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">The flowers were.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">John Ashbery&#8217;s &#8220;The New
Spirit,&#8221; the start of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Three Poems </i>(which
I will always read as one), presents a very similar opposed pair &#8211; but note
that DuPlessis has reversed the order, or at the very least suggested that
possibility.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">One
image or theme that runs through this passage is light: &#8220;all the sugar is
reconstituted: / sunlight&#8221; or &#8220;light this / governed being:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; </span>it?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;
</span><span class="GramE">that</span>?&#8221; This question of embodiment leads to the
section&#8217;s last stanza, which transforms a <span class="SpellE">Zukofskian</span>
moment of closure that is almost stunning in how directly DuPlessis gets to it&#8221;<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt; margin-left: .5in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in;">
<span class="GramE"><span style="font-family: Arial;">plunges</span></span><span style="font-family: Arial;"> into every object<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt; margin-left: .5in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in;">
<span class="GramE"><span style="font-family: Arial;">a</span></span><span style="font-family: Arial;"> word and then some<span style="mso-tab-count: 2;">&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; </span>chuck
and<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt; margin-left: .5in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in;">
<span class="SpellE"><span class="GramE"><span style="font-family: Arial;">pwhee</span></span></span><span style="font-family: Arial;"> wee<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt; margin-left: .5in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in;">
<span class="GramE"><span style="font-family: Arial;">half</span></span><span style="font-family: Arial;"> <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt; margin-left: .5in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in;">
<span class="GramE"><span style="font-family: Arial;">tones</span></span><span style="font-family: Arial;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt; margin-left: .5in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in;">
<span class="GramE"><span style="font-family: Arial;">have</span></span><span style="font-family: Arial;"> tune&#8217;s <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt; margin-left: .5in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in;">
<span class="GramE"><span style="font-family: Arial;">heft</span></span><span style="font-family: Arial;">.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">There
are no half measures in these two passages &#8211; DuPlessis takes you right smack
into the heart of writing with all of its epistemological &amp; ontological
questions in what amounts to a &#8220;take no prisoners&#8221; directness. The ambition of
the moment is both sweeping and </span><st1:city><st1:place><span style="font-family: Arial;">brea</span></st1:place></st1:city><span style="font-family: Arial;">th-taking. We are </span><st1:state><st1:place><span style="font-family: Arial;">ind</span></st1:place></st1:state><span style="font-family: Arial;">eed at the cusp of a great adventure.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 10.0pt;">* I&#8217;m not sure whether any of Grenier&#8217;s scrawl works, which
I believe existed by the mid 1980s, had appeared anywhere that DuPlessis might
have seen them at this point in history. My guess is not.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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          </div></div>
        

          <div class="date-outer">
        
<h2 class='date-header'><span>Thursday, December 12, 2002</span></h2>

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<p class=MsoNormal><span style='font-family:Arial'>Turning to George Stanley&#8217;s
&#8220;Vancouver, Book One&#8221; in <i style='mso-bidi-font-style:normal'>The Poker </i>this
morning, I realize several things:<o:p></o:p></span></p>

<p class=MsoNormal><span style='font-family:Arial'><o:p>&nbsp;</o:p></span></p>

<p class=MsoNormal style='margin-left:1.0in;text-indent:-.25in;mso-list:l0 level1 lfo2;
tab-stops:list 1.0in'><!--[if !supportLists]--><span style='font-family:Wingdings;
mso-fareast-font-family:Wingdings;mso-bidi-font-family:Wingdings'><span
style='mso-list:Ignore'>&#167;<span style='font:7.0pt "Times New Roman"'>&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;
</span></span></span><!--[endif]--><i style='mso-bidi-font-style:normal'><span
style='font-family:Arial'>The Poker&#8217;s</span></i><span style='font-family:Arial'>
table of contents is alphabetical by first name &#8211; good fortune for Chris
Stroffolino, not so good for Tom Devaney &amp; it takes me awhile to find the
page number again for George.<o:p></o:p></span></p>

<p class=MsoNormal><span style='font-family:Arial'><o:p>&nbsp;</o:p></span></p>

<p class=MsoNormal style='margin-left:1.0in;text-indent:-.25in;mso-list:l0 level1 lfo2;
tab-stops:list 1.0in'><!--[if !supportLists]--><span style='font-family:Wingdings;
mso-fareast-font-family:Wingdings;mso-bidi-font-family:Wingdings'><span
style='mso-list:Ignore'>&#167;<span style='font:7.0pt "Times New Roman"'>&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;
</span></span></span><!--[endif]--><span style='font-family:Arial'>The section published
here is not all of </span><st1:City><st1:place><i style='mso-bidi-font-style:
  normal'><span style='font-family:Arial'>Vancouver</span></i></st1:place></st1:City><i
style='mso-bidi-font-style:normal'><span style='font-family:Arial'>, Book One</span></i><span
style='font-family:Arial'>, but rather just section 8.<o:p></o:p></span></p>

<p class=MsoNormal><span style='font-family:Arial'><o:p>&nbsp;</o:p></span></p>

<p class=MsoNormal style='margin-left:1.0in;text-indent:-.25in;mso-list:l0 level1 lfo2;
tab-stops:list 1.0in'><!--[if !supportLists]--><span style='font-family:Wingdings;
mso-fareast-font-family:Wingdings;mso-bidi-font-family:Wingdings'><span
style='mso-list:Ignore'>&#167;<span style='font:7.0pt "Times New Roman"'>&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;
</span></span></span><!--[endif]--><span style='font-family:Arial'>The work
partakes of not one, but two distinct (though related) genres: the poem as
journal &amp; the poem written on transit.<o:p></o:p></span></p>

<p class=MsoNormal><span style='font-family:Arial'><o:p>&nbsp;</o:p></span></p>

<p class=MsoNormal><span class=GramE><span style='font-family:Arial'>An epic in
the form of a journal?</span></span><span style='font-family:Arial'> It&#8217;s an
interesting concept, problematic from the outset (which I suspect is </span><st1:State><st1:place><span
  style='font-family:Arial'>del</span></st1:place></st1:State><span
style='font-family:Arial'>iberate). </span><st1:PersonName><span
 style='font-family:Arial'>Kevin Davies</span></st1:PersonName><span
style='font-family:Arial'> &#8211; one of the editors of </span><st1:City><st1:place><span
  style='font-family:Arial'>Stanley</span></st1:place></st1:City><span
style='font-family:Arial'>&#8217;s forthcoming selected, <i style='mso-bidi-font-style:
normal'><a
href="http://writing.upenn.edu/epc/mirrors/ronsilliman.blogspot.com/2002_11_01_ronsilliman_archive.html%2385049898">A
Tall, Serious Girl</a> </i>&#8211; recently sent me a note that mutual friend Ben
Friedlander had posted to another list on the subject of journals. It read in
part:<o:p></o:p></span></p>

<p class=MsoNormal><span style='font-family:Arial'><o:p>&nbsp;</o:p></span></p>

<p class=MsoNormal style='margin-top:0in;margin-right:.5in;margin-bottom:0in;
margin-left:.5in;margin-bottom:.0001pt'>[Paul] <st1:place>Blackburn</st1:place>
is incredible; he and [Joanne] Kyger are to my mind the most underrated poets
of their generation. Both of them take the journal as their basic form, and
both are geniuses at naturalizing peculiar verbal gestures by fixing them in
narrative structures. I suspect that similarity has something to do with the
lack of respect they get: the journal form looks dated, I guess, and the
naturalizing leads people to take them as simple. Otherwise, they&#8217;re very
different. Kyger uses the journal as a way of investigating the nature of space
and time. <st1:place>Blackburn</st1:place> is a social historian. </p>

<p class=MsoNormal style='margin-top:0in;margin-right:.5in;margin-bottom:0in;
margin-left:.5in;margin-bottom:.0001pt'><o:p>&nbsp;</o:p></p>

<p class=MsoNormal style='margin-right:.5in'><span style='font-family:Arial'>This
recalled what I&#8217;d written about </span><st1:place><span style='font-family:
 Arial'>Blackburn</span></st1:place><span style='font-family:Arial'>&#8217;s <i
style='mso-bidi-font-style:normal'>Journals</i> in the <a
href="http://writing.upenn.edu/epc/mirrors/ronsilliman.blogspot.com/2002_11_01_ronsilliman_archive.html%2385147325">blog</a>:
&#8220;even a fine poet does not necessarily make for great reading when writing
becomes all but dissociated from intention.&#8221; <o:p></o:p></span></p>

<p class=MsoNormal style='margin-right:.5in'><span style='font-family:Arial'><o:p>&nbsp;</o:p></span></p>

<p class=MsoNormal style='margin-right:.5in'><span style='font-family:Arial'>But
</span><st1:place><span style='font-family:Arial'>Blackburn</span></st1:place><span
style='font-family:Arial'> clearly distinguished between journals &amp; poems &#8211;
you have to go 474 pages into <i style='mso-bidi-font-style:normal'>The
Collected Poems </i>before you find the first piece identified as a journal
entry, dating from 1967, when </span><st1:place><span style='font-family:Arial'>Blackburn</span></st1:place><span
style='font-family:Arial'> was already 40 and a significant figure in American
poetry. Kyger likewise makes the distinction. Many of her poems may seem
occasional &amp;, as with </span><st1:place><span style='font-family:Arial'>Blackburn</span></st1:place><span
style='font-family:Arial'>, they&#8217;re often dated, either at the foot of the poem
or in its title. But these works are radically different from <i
style='mso-bidi-font-style:normal'>The </i></span><st1:country-region><st1:place><i
  style='mso-bidi-font-style:normal'><span style='font-family:Arial'>Japan</span></i></st1:place></st1:country-region><i
style='mso-bidi-font-style:normal'><span style='font-family:Arial'> and </span></i><st1:country-region><st1:place><i
  style='mso-bidi-font-style:normal'><span style='font-family:Arial'>India</span></i></st1:place></st1:country-region><i
style='mso-bidi-font-style:normal'><span style='font-family:Arial'> Journals 1960-1964.
</span></i><span style='font-family:Arial'>In this way, Blackburn &amp; Kyger
are both like Larry Eigner or Ted Berrigan, two other great poets who used the
form of the occasional poem, literally the poem as the register of an occasion.
It&#8217;s not, I would argue with Ben, quite the same. The occasional poem &#8211; a genre
far too neglected critically &#8211; utilizes its originating or motivating event as
both instigator &amp; determinant of boundary for the poem, but that <span
class=SpellE>boundedness</span>, that sense of a defined edge, is precisely
what journals lack. Journals have a tendency to be formless in their outer
exoskeletal concerns &amp; often proceed merely chronologically. So while I
agree with Friedlander&#8217;s assessment of </span><st1:place><span
 style='font-family:Arial'>Blackburn</span></st1:place><span style='font-family:
Arial'> &amp; especially of Kyger, for my money the most significant woman
writing from the late 1950s until the 1970s &amp; always a wonderful poet, I
don&#8217;t see either as taking &#8220;the journal as their basic form.&#8221;<o:p></o:p></span></p>

<p class=MsoNormal style='margin-right:.5in'><span style='font-family:Arial'><o:p>&nbsp;</o:p></span></p>

<p class=MsoNormal style='margin-right:.5in'><span style='font-family:Arial'>So
the idea of a longpoem in the mode of a journal &#8211; it was </span><st1:PersonName><span
 style='font-family:Arial'>Kevin Davies</span></st1:PersonName><span
style='font-family:Arial'> who first used the term &#8220;epic&#8221; to characterize </span><st1:City><st1:place><i
  style='mso-bidi-font-style:normal'><span style='font-family:Arial'>Vancouver</span></i></st1:place></st1:City><span
style='font-family:Arial'> &#8211; strikes me as a consciously challenging project.
Its secret underbelly, of course, is the reality that <i style='mso-bidi-font-style:
normal'>every epic is at some level a journal</i>. It is not an accident, I
think, that the most studied &amp; revered portion of Pound&#8217;s <i
style='mso-bidi-font-style:normal'>Cantos </i>are <i style='mso-bidi-font-style:
normal'>The <span class=SpellE>Pisan</span> Cantos</i>, very much Pound&#8217;s
journal of imprisonment in the cages at </span><st1:City><st1:place><span
  style='font-family:Arial'>Pisa</span></st1:place></st1:City><span
style='font-family:Arial'>. All the fog &amp; pretense of writing about Van
Buren&#8217;s </span><st1:PersonName><span style='font-family:Arial'>admin</span></st1:PersonName><span
style='font-family:Arial'>istration, for example, is revealed by contrast to
have been just that: fog &amp; pretense. Rather, the great epic quest of
bringing together these disparate historic particulars simply gave Pound
something to write &#8220;about&#8221; while writing, just as a translation is itself a way
for a person to write without having anything of their own to say. In both
senses, the process of writing is almost entirely apart from any question of
content. <i style='mso-bidi-font-style:normal'>We write because we write </i>is
the secret motto of every poet. Having &#8220;something to say&#8221; is nice, but hardly
necessary. Are you really interested in the history of a fishing village
northeast of </span><st1:City><st1:place><span style='font-family:Arial'>Boston</span></st1:place></st1:City><span
style='font-family:Arial'>? Can anyone tell even remotely what the &#8220;subject&#8221; of
<i style='mso-bidi-font-style:normal'>&#8220;A&#8221; </i>might be? Far from damning, the
answers to these questions tell us something very important about poetry, its
relation to the self-valuable signifier &amp; the importance of process. Thus I
think that the great challenge of any &amp; every longpoem has always been how <i
style='mso-bidi-font-style:normal'>not</i> to be &#8220;just a journal.&#8221; </span><st1:City><st1:place><span
  style='font-family:Arial'>Stanley</span></st1:place></st1:City><span
style='font-family:Arial'>, it would appear, has decided to turn that question
on its head &amp; tackle it straight on.<o:p></o:p></span></p>

<p class=MsoNormal style='margin-right:.5in'><span style='font-family:Arial'><o:p>&nbsp;</o:p></span></p>

<p class=MsoNormal style='margin-right:.5in'><span style='font-family:Arial'>The
poem of public transit, as you might imagine, is another genre very close to my
heart, having written books both explicitly (<i style='mso-bidi-font-style:
normal'>BART</i>) and implicitly (<i style='mso-bidi-font-style:normal'>Sitting
Up, Standing, Taking Steps </i>or, say, <i style='mso-bidi-font-style:normal'>What</i>)
entirely while riding around on buses &amp; trains. There is even a section of <i
style='mso-bidi-font-style:normal'>The Alphabet, </i>in <i style='mso-bidi-font-style:
normal'>Ketjak2: Caravan of Affect,</i> in which I take the process of <i
style='mso-bidi-font-style:normal'>BART</i>, riding around the entire course of
an urban transit system, &amp; apply it to the comparable system in a city that
I barely know at all, </span><st1:City><st1:place><span style='font-family:
  Arial'>Atlanta</span></st1:place></st1:City><span style='font-family:Arial'>.
<o:p></o:p></span></p>

<p class=MsoNormal style='margin-right:.5in'><span style='font-family:Arial'><o:p>&nbsp;</o:p></span></p>

<p class=MsoNormal style='margin-right:.5in'><span style='font-family:Arial'>For
me the great poets of transit have always been Robert Duncan &amp; Phil Whalen
&amp; while Whalen&#8217;s poetry also edges up against that concept of the journal
that Friedlander is trying to get at, </span><st1:City><st1:place><span
  style='font-family:Arial'>Duncan</span></st1:place></st1:City><span
style='font-family:Arial'> is certainly the furthest poet imaginable from that
mode. Yet </span><st1:City><st1:place><span style='font-family:Arial'>Duncan</span></st1:place></st1:City><span
style='font-family:Arial'> once told me that he could not have written &#8220;This
Place <span class=SpellE>Rumord</span> to Have Been Sodom&#8221; &#8211; the very poem that
</span><st1:City><st1:place><span style='font-family:Arial'>Stanley</span></st1:place></st1:City><span
style='font-family:Arial'> takes direct aim at in his own early great work &#8220;</span><st1:City><st1:place><span
  style='font-family:Arial'>Pompeii</span></st1:place></st1:City><span
style='font-family:Arial'>&#8221; &#8211; without having been on the </span><st1:City><st1:place><span
  style='font-family:Arial'>San Francisco</span></st1:place></st1:City><span
style='font-family:Arial'> <span class=SpellE>Muni</span> &amp; that that poem
carried within it the rhythms of <span class=SpellE>Muni&#8217;s</span> tracks.*<o:p></o:p></span></p>

<p class=MsoNormal style='margin-right:.5in'><span style='font-family:Arial'><o:p>&nbsp;</o:p></span></p>

<p class=MsoNormal style='margin-right:.5in'><span style='font-family:Arial'>Stanley
himself has used transit <i style='mso-bidi-font-style:normal'>in </i>his poems,
even if not as a process <i style='mso-bidi-font-style:normal'>for </i>the
poems, before. In fact, when going through the manuscript for <i
style='mso-bidi-font-style:normal'>A Tall, Serious Girl</i>, I&#8217;d misremembered
one of his early </span><st1:City><st1:place><span style='font-family:Arial'>San
  Francisco</span></st1:place></st1:City><span style='font-family:Arial'>
works, &#8220;Flesh Eating Poem,&#8221; as being about the </span><st1:place><span
 style='font-family:Arial'>N Judah</span></st1:place><span style='font-family:
Arial'> because there is a reference to that streetcar, as well as to the 22
Fillmore line. Since in reality that&#8217;s a serious misreading (or rather
misremembering, the mind revising as it does, constantly), I was surprised not
to find what I recalled as the &#8220;</span><st1:place><span style='font-family:
 Arial'>N Judah</span></st1:place><span style='font-family:Arial'>&#8221; poem in the
manuscript. In fact, &#8220;Flesh Eating Poem&#8221; &#8211; that title gives you just a taste &#8211;
is included. <o:p></o:p></span></p>

<p class=MsoNormal style='margin-right:.5in'><span style='font-family:Arial'><o:p>&nbsp;</o:p></span></p>

<p class=MsoNormal style='margin-right:.5in'><span style='font-family:Arial'>Now,
in </span><st1:City><st1:place><i style='mso-bidi-font-style:normal'><span
  style='font-family:Arial'>Vancouver</span></i></st1:place></st1:City><i
style='mso-bidi-font-style:normal'><span style='font-family:Arial'>,</span></i><span
style='font-family:Arial'> we are very much getting on the bus or off the bus &#8211;
the <span class=SpellE>SeaBus</span> included &#8211; &#8220;Writing in the dark &#8211; outside
the college &#8211; in the sodium glare through the bus window.&#8221; Perhaps the poem of
transit is a genre within a genre here &#8211; &amp; I know that I&#8217;m more deeply
attracted to it as a model for writing than <s>almost</s> anyone I&#8217;ve ever met
&#8211; but it makes me especially pleased, gleeful even, to see it rise up again at
the start of a new longpoem.<o:p></o:p></span></p>

<p class=MsoNormal style='margin-right:.5in'><span style='font-family:Arial'><o:p>&nbsp;</o:p></span></p>

<p class=MsoNormal style='margin-right:.5in'><span style='font-family:Arial'><o:p>&nbsp;</o:p></span></p>

<p class=MsoNormal style='margin-right:.5in'><span style='font-family:Arial'><o:p>&nbsp;</o:p></span></p>

<p class=MsoNormal style='margin-right:.5in'><span style='font-family:Arial'><o:p>&nbsp;</o:p></span></p>

<p class=MsoNormal style='margin-right:.5in'><span style='font-family:Arial'><o:p>&nbsp;</o:p></span></p>

<p class=MsoNormal style='margin-right:.5in'><span style='font-family:Arial'><o:p>&nbsp;</o:p></span></p>

<p class=MsoNormal style='margin-right:.5in'><span style='font-size:10.0pt;
font-family:Arial'>* Some of my very best discussions with </span><st1:City><st1:place><span
  style='font-size:10.0pt;font-family:Arial'>Duncan</span></st1:place></st1:City><span
style='font-size:10.0pt;font-family:Arial'> came on the &#8220;F&#8221; bus between the
original <span class=GramE>location</span> of Serendipity Books on Shattuck
&amp; San Francisco. </span><st1:City><st1:place><span style='font-size:10.0pt;
  font-family:Arial'>Duncan</span></st1:place></st1:City><span
style='font-size:10.0pt;font-family:Arial'> went to Serendipity almost every
Wednesday afternoon &amp; then would walk over to the Shattuck Co-op to shop
for groceries before catching the bus &amp; an attentive person who also lived
in the City could sometimes make this same journey &#8211; I still think of those
trips as my Symposium of the Bus. I rue the day, moving back to the </span><st1:place><st1:PlaceName><span
  style='font-size:10.0pt;font-family:Arial'>East</span></st1:PlaceName><span
 style='font-size:10.0pt;font-family:Arial'> </span><st1:PlaceType><span
  style='font-size:10.0pt;font-family:Arial'>Bay</span></st1:PlaceType></st1:place><span
style='font-size:10.0pt;font-family:Arial'> in 1987, when I realized that
politicians had devastated the AC Transit system since I&#8217;d headed to </span><st1:City><st1:place><span
  style='font-size:10.0pt;font-family:Arial'>San Francisco</span></st1:place></st1:City><span
style='font-size:10.0pt;font-family:Arial'> in 1972 (I&#8217;d also lived in SF in
1966-67). It meant that I had no choice at that point but to learn to drive. <o:p></o:p></span></p>

<p class=MsoNormal style='margin-right:.5in'><span style='font-size:10.0pt;
font-family:Arial'><span style='mso-tab-count:1'>&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160; </span>I want to
note also that </span><st1:City><st1:place><span style='font-size:10.0pt;
  font-family:Arial'>Duncan</span></st1:place></st1:City><span
style='font-size:10.0pt;font-family:Arial'> shopped at the Co-op not because he
liked carting groceries 10 miles in his lap &amp; then via the <span
class=SpellE>Muni</span> to his home in the </span><st1:City><st1:place><span
  style='font-size:10.0pt;font-family:Arial'>Mission</span></st1:place></st1:City><span
style='font-size:10.0pt;font-family:Arial'>, but because the Co-op&#8217;s attendant
credit union, Twin Pines Federal Savings, had &#8220;not blinked an eye&#8221; (Duncan&#8217;s
phrase) at the idea of issuing a mortgage loan to two men in the early &amp;
deeply homophobic 1950s. One more vote for a socialist bank.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
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          <div class="date-outer">
        
<h2 class='date-header'><span>Monday, November 25, 2002</span></h2>

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<p class=MsoNormal><span style='font-family:Arial'>Sometime in 1967, Jack
Gilbert introduced George Stanley to his creative writing class at </span><st1:place><st1:PlaceName><span
  style='font-family:Arial'>San Francisco</span></st1:PlaceName><span
 style='font-family:Arial'> </span><st1:PlaceType><span style='font-family:
  Arial'>State</span></st1:PlaceType></st1:place><span style='font-family:Arial'>
by calling Stanley, &#8220;the finest poet now writing.&#8221; That may seem like an
incongruous pairing for such an elaborate compliment today, but in the late
1960s in </span><st1:City><st1:place><span style='font-family:Arial'>San
  Francisco</span></st1:place></st1:City><span style='font-family:Arial'>,
there was something approaching a consensus about </span><st1:City><st1:place><span
  style='font-family:Arial'>Stanley</span></st1:place></st1:City><span
style='font-family:Arial'>&#8217;s talent and promise. Having been raised in </span><st1:City><st1:place><span
  style='font-family:Arial'>San Francisco</span></st1:place></st1:City><span
style='font-family:Arial'>, where Duncan, Spicer, Rexroth, all the Beats, <span
class=GramE>were</span> transplants in exile from Elsewhere, George Stanley was
poetry&#8217;s home town favorite. He cut that narrative of the Golden Boy short by
moving to British Columbia around 1970, a time when the border was far less
permeable (&amp; far more one-directional) in terms of literary influence than
it is today. For the past 32 years, he has lived and worked in </span><st1:place><span
 style='font-family:Arial'>Western Canada</span></st1:place><span
style='font-family:Arial'>. Once one of the most visible poets working in the
New American idiom, he has all but dropped from view 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'>.* <o:p></o:p></span></p>

<p class=MsoNormal><span style='font-family:Arial'><o:p>&nbsp;</o:p></span></p>

<p class=MsoNormal><span style='font-family:Arial'>This may be about to change
as Qua Books prepares <i style='mso-bidi-font-style:normal'>A Tall, Serious
Girl: Selected Poems, 1957-2000</i>, co-edited by </span><st1:PersonName><span
 style='font-family:Arial'>Kevin Davies</span></st1:PersonName><span
style='font-family:Arial'> and Larry Fagin, for publication. At 228 pages, it&#8217;s
a sizable volume, although, containing just 63 poems written over 43 years,
this is not yet the <i style='mso-bidi-font-style:normal'>Collected</i> for
which we will hopefully not have to wait too many more decades. <o:p></o:p></span></p>

<p class=MsoNormal><span style='font-family:Arial'><o:p>&nbsp;</o:p></span></p>

<p class=MsoNormal><st1:City><st1:place><span style='font-family:Arial'>Stanley</span></st1:place></st1:City><span
style='font-family:Arial'> was the sort of young writer who absorbs and
synthesizes his influences almost effortlessly, not unlike Curtis Faville 15
years later. &#8220;</span><st1:City><st1:place><span style='font-family:Arial'>Pompeii</span></st1:place></st1:City><span
style='font-family:Arial'>,&#8221; literally the second poem in this book, was one of
the <span class=GramE>handful</span> of works by which </span><st1:City><st1:place><span
  style='font-family:Arial'>San Francisco</span></st1:place></st1:City><span
style='font-family:Arial'> poets gauged themselves in the 1960s. It situates
itself almost perfectly halfway between Spicer, </span><st1:City><st1:place><span
  style='font-family:Arial'>Stanley</span></st1:place></st1:City><span
style='font-family:Arial'>&#8217;s early mentor, and Robert Duncan or perhaps I
should say, </span><st1:City><st1:place><span style='font-family:Arial'>Duncan</span></st1:place></st1:City><span
style='font-family:Arial'>&#8217;s H.D. Here is the opening section:<o:p></o:p></span></p>

<p class=MsoNormal><span style='font-family:Arial'><o:p>&nbsp;</o:p></span></p>

<p class=MsoNormal style='margin-left:.5in;mso-layout-grid-align:none;
text-autospace:none'><span style='font-family:Arial'>When I read this poem I
think of </span><st1:City><st1:place><span style='font-family:Arial'>Pompeii</span></st1:place></st1:City><span
style='font-family:Arial'>.<o:p></o:p></span></p>

<p class=MsoNormal style='margin-left:.5in;mso-layout-grid-align:none;
text-autospace:none'><span style='font-family:Arial'><o:p>&nbsp;</o:p></span></p>

<p class=MsoNormal style='margin-left:.5in;mso-layout-grid-align:none;
text-autospace:none'><span style='font-family:Arial'>When they dug up </span><st1:City><st1:place><span
  style='font-family:Arial'>Pompeii</span></st1:place></st1:City><span
style='font-family:Arial'> the poems were gone,<o:p></o:p></span></p>

<p class=MsoNormal style='margin-left:.5in;mso-layout-grid-align:none;
text-autospace:none'><span class=GramE><span style='font-family:Arial'>flower-</span></span><span
style='font-family:Arial'>like and fragile in the stone,<o:p></o:p></span></p>

<p class=MsoNormal style='margin-left:.5in;mso-layout-grid-align:none;
text-autospace:none'><span class=GramE><span style='font-family:Arial'>giving</span></span><span
style='font-family:Arial'> nothing to the stone,<o:p></o:p></span></p>

<p class=MsoNormal style='margin-left:.5in;mso-layout-grid-align:none;
text-autospace:none'><span class=GramE><span style='font-family:Arial'>honey</span></span><span
style='font-family:Arial'> alloyed to the stone,<o:p></o:p></span></p>

<p class=MsoNormal style='margin-left:.5in;mso-layout-grid-align:none;
text-autospace:none'><span class=GramE><span style='font-family:Arial'>making</span></span><span
style='font-family:Arial'> nothing sweet.<o:p></o:p></span></p>

<p class=MsoNormal style='margin-left:.5in;mso-layout-grid-align:none;
text-autospace:none'><span style='font-family:Arial'><o:p>&nbsp;</o:p></span></p>

<p class=MsoNormal style='margin-left:.5in;mso-layout-grid-align:none;
text-autospace:none'><span style='font-family:Arial'>The eyes of the matrons
burned on the dark blue walls,<o:p></o:p></span></p>

<p class=MsoNormal style='margin-left:.5in;mso-layout-grid-align:none;
text-autospace:none'><span class=GramE><span style='font-family:Arial'>under</span></span><span
style='font-family:Arial'> their eyes in shallow pools,<o:p></o:p></span></p>

<p class=MsoNormal style='margin-left:.5in;mso-layout-grid-align:none;
text-autospace:none'><span class=GramE><span style='font-family:Arial'>the</span></span><span
style='font-family:Arial'> bell of a xylophone, silver,<o:p></o:p></span></p>

<p class=MsoNormal style='margin-left:.5in;mso-layout-grid-align:none;
text-autospace:none'><span class=GramE><span style='font-family:Arial'>bell</span></span><span
style='font-family:Arial'> of an ambulance,<o:p></o:p></span></p>

<p class=MsoNormal style='margin-left:.5in;mso-layout-grid-align:none;
text-autospace:none'><span class=GramE><span style='font-family:Arial'>bell</span></span><span
style='font-family:Arial'> of a burglar alarm,<o:p></o:p></span></p>

<p class=MsoNormal style='margin-left:.5in;mso-layout-grid-align:none;
text-autospace:none'><span class=GramE><span style='font-family:Arial'>a</span></span><span
style='font-family:Arial'> trying to watch the slowest of motion,<o:p></o:p></span></p>

<p class=MsoNormal style='margin-left:.5in;mso-layout-grid-align:none;
text-autospace:none'><span class=GramE><span style='font-family:Arial'>a</span></span><span
style='font-family:Arial'> grinding explosion,<o:p></o:p></span></p>

<p class=MsoNormal style='margin-left:.5in;mso-layout-grid-align:none;
text-autospace:none'><span class=GramE><span style='font-family:Arial'>change</span></span><span
style='font-family:Arial'> everything in the complexity of a second.<o:p></o:p></span></p>

<p class=MsoNormal style='margin-left:.5in;mso-layout-grid-align:none;
text-autospace:none'><span style='font-family:Arial'><o:p>&nbsp;</o:p></span></p>

<p class=MsoNormal style='margin-left:.5in;mso-layout-grid-align:none;
text-autospace:none'><span style='font-family:Arial'>When I read this poem I
know </span><st1:City><st1:place><span style='font-family:Arial'>Pompeii</span></st1:place></st1:City><span
style='font-family:Arial'> is at hand.<o:p></o:p></span></p>

<p class=MsoNormal style='margin-left:.5in;mso-layout-grid-align:none;
text-autospace:none'><span style='font-family:Arial'><o:p>&nbsp;</o:p></span></p>

<p class=MsoNormal style='margin-left:.5in;mso-layout-grid-align:none;
text-autospace:none'><span style='font-family:Arial'>They were unready. It came
at the wrong<o:p></o:p></span></p>

<p class=MsoNormal style='margin-left:.5in;mso-layout-grid-align:none;
text-autospace:none'><span class=GramE><span style='font-family:Arial'>hour</span></span><span
style='font-family:Arial'> for them, the silver bell.<o:p></o:p></span></p>

<p class=MsoNormal style='margin-left:.5in;mso-layout-grid-align:none;
text-autospace:none'><span style='font-family:Arial'>Some little dignity argued
a minute with the enclosing,<o:p></o:p></span></p>

<p class=MsoNormal style='margin-left:.5in;mso-layout-grid-align:none;
text-autospace:none'><span class=GramE><span style='font-family:Arial'>and</span></span><span
style='font-family:Arial'> all that was left then was the gesture,<o:p></o:p></span></p>

<p class=MsoNormal style='margin-left:.5in;mso-layout-grid-align:none;
text-autospace:none'><span class=GramE><span style='font-family:Arial'>virginity</span></span><span
style='font-family:Arial'>, the little lost dog come home<o:p></o:p></span></p>

<p class=MsoNormal style='margin-left:.5in;mso-layout-grid-align:none;
text-autospace:none'><span class=GramE><span style='font-family:Arial'>leaping</span></span><span
style='font-family:Arial'> and leaping caught as in a cartoon.<o:p></o:p></span></p>

<p class=MsoNormal style='margin-left:.5in;mso-layout-grid-align:none;
text-autospace:none'><span style='font-family:Arial'><o:p>&nbsp;</o:p></span></p>

<p class=MsoNormal style='margin-left:.5in;mso-layout-grid-align:none;
text-autospace:none'><span style='font-family:Arial'>When I read this poem I
know </span><st1:City><st1:place><span style='font-family:Arial'>Pompeii</span></st1:place></st1:City><span
style='font-family:Arial'> is imminent,<o:p></o:p></span></p>

<p class=MsoNormal style='margin-left:.5in;mso-layout-grid-align:none;
text-autospace:none'><span style='font-family:Arial'>I know we are moving
easily into frenzy,<o:p></o:p></span></p>

<p class=MsoNormal style='margin-left:.5in;mso-layout-grid-align:none;
text-autospace:none'><span style='font-family:Arial'>I feel like taking off my
hat to </span><st1:City><st1:place><span style='font-family:Arial'>Pompeii</span></st1:place></st1:City><span
style='font-family:Arial'><o:p></o:p></span></p>

<p class=MsoNormal style='margin-left:.5in;mso-layout-grid-align:none;
text-autospace:none'><span class=GramE><span style='font-family:Arial'>before</span></span><span
style='font-family:Arial'> running.<o:p></o:p></span></p>

<p class=MsoNormal><span style='font-family:Arial'><o:p>&nbsp;</o:p></span></p>

<p class=MsoNormal><span style='font-family:Arial'>It is the Spicerian touches,
the ambulance &amp; the burglar alarm, the Buster <span class=SpellE>Keaton</span>-like
gesture in that last couplet above, that keep this poem from being what, on
another level, it actually is: a shadow of </span><st1:City><st1:place><span
  style='font-family:Arial'>Duncan</span></st1:place></st1:City><span
style='font-family:Arial'>&#8217;s great &#8220;This Place <span class=SpellE>Rumord</span>
to Have Been Sodom.&#8221; Yet as a shadow, it&#8217;s a curiously ambitious one. </span><st1:City><st1:place><span
  style='font-family:Arial'>Stanley</span></st1:place></st1:City><span
style='font-family:Arial'> seems to have set out to deliberately out-Duncan </span><st1:City><st1:place><span
  style='font-family:Arial'>Duncan</span></st1:place></st1:City><span
style='font-family:Arial'> and to some degree does. It&#8217;s a move Rimbaud would
have understood.<o:p></o:p></span></p>

<p class=MsoNormal><span style='font-family:Arial'><o:p>&nbsp;</o:p></span></p>

<p class=MsoNormal><span style='font-family:Arial'>Like any Spicerian monolog,
&#8220;</span><st1:City><st1:place><span style='font-family:Arial'>Pompeii</span></st1:place></st1:City><span
style='font-family:Arial'>&#8221; invokes a palpable but silenced you as it considers
the paralysis of the decadent state &#8211; even if it is the state of poetry &#8211;
moving through two slightly longer sections before arriving at the final two:<o:p></o:p></span></p>

<p class=MsoNormal><span style='font-family:Arial'><o:p>&nbsp;</o:p></span></p>

<p class=MsoNormal style='margin-left:.75in;text-indent:-.25in;mso-layout-grid-align:
none;text-autospace:none'><span style='font-family:Arial'>There was a time for
consolation<o:p></o:p></span></p>

<p class=MsoNormal style='margin-left:.75in;text-indent:-.25in;mso-layout-grid-align:
none;text-autospace:none'><span class=GramE><span style='font-family:Arial'>in</span></span><span
style='font-family:Arial'> the morning of the state, you and me, Republicans,<o:p></o:p></span></p>

<p class=MsoNormal style='margin-left:.75in;text-indent:-.25in;mso-layout-grid-align:
none;text-autospace:none'><span class=GramE><span style='font-family:Arial'>read</span></span><span
style='font-family:Arial'>, &#8220;The unexamined life is not worth living.&#8221;<o:p></o:p></span></p>

<p class=MsoNormal style='margin-left:.75in;text-indent:-.25in;mso-layout-grid-align:
none;text-autospace:none'><span style='font-family:Arial'>That could console
us. But now we cannot<o:p></o:p></span></p>

<p class=MsoNormal style='margin-left:.75in;text-indent:-.25in;mso-layout-grid-align:
none;text-autospace:none'><span class=GramE><span style='font-family:Arial'>get</span></span><span
style='font-family:Arial'> consolation from Greek maxims<o:p></o:p></span></p>

<p class=MsoNormal style='margin-left:.75in;text-indent:-.25in;mso-layout-grid-align:
none;text-autospace:none'><span class=GramE><span style='font-family:Arial'>when</span></span><span
style='font-family:Arial'> everybody is licking his lips, expectant.<o:p></o:p></span></p>

<p class=MsoNormal style='margin-left:.75in;text-indent:-.25in;mso-layout-grid-align:
none;text-autospace:none'><span style='font-family:Arial'><o:p>&nbsp;</o:p></span></p>

<p class=MsoNormal style='margin-left:.75in;text-indent:-.25in;mso-layout-grid-align:
none;text-autospace:none'><span style='font-family:Arial'>&#8226;<o:p></o:p></span></p>

<p class=MsoNormal style='margin-left:.75in;text-indent:-.25in'><span
style='font-family:Arial'><o:p>&nbsp;</o:p></span></p>

<p class=MsoNormal style='margin-left:.75in;text-indent:-.25in;mso-layout-grid-align:
none;text-autospace:none'><st1:City><st1:place><span style='font-family:Arial'>Bell</span></st1:place></st1:City><span
style='font-family:Arial'> of a xylophone,<o:p></o:p></span></p>

<p class=MsoNormal style='margin-left:.75in;text-indent:-.25in;mso-layout-grid-align:
none;text-autospace:none'><st1:City><st1:place><span style='font-family:Arial'>Bell</span></st1:place></st1:City><span
style='font-family:Arial'> of an ambulance,<o:p></o:p></span></p>

<p class=MsoNormal style='margin-left:.75in;text-indent:-.25in;mso-layout-grid-align:
none;text-autospace:none'><st1:City><st1:place><span class=GramE><span
  style='font-family:Arial'>Bell</span></span></st1:place></st1:City><span
class=GramE><span style='font-family:Arial'> of a burglar alarm, silver.</span></span><span
style='font-family:Arial'><o:p></o:p></span></p>

<p class=MsoNormal style='margin-left:.75in;text-indent:-.25in;mso-layout-grid-align:
none;text-autospace:none'><span style='font-family:Arial'>Now time has fallen
into our hands<o:p></o:p></span></p>

<p class=MsoNormal style='margin-left:.75in;text-indent:-.25in;mso-layout-grid-align:
none;text-autospace:none'><span class=GramE><span style='font-family:Arial'>out</span></span><span
style='font-family:Arial'> of all the clocks. You look to me<o:p></o:p></span></p>

<p class=MsoNormal style='margin-left:.75in;text-indent:-.25in;mso-layout-grid-align:
none;text-autospace:none'><span class=GramE><span style='font-family:Arial'>for</span></span><span
style='font-family:Arial'> consolation, and the hot wind<o:p></o:p></span></p>

<p class=MsoNormal style='margin-left:.75in;text-indent:-.25in;mso-layout-grid-align:
none;text-autospace:none'><span class=GramE><span style='font-family:Arial'>pours</span></span><span
style='font-family:Arial'> by unconcerned, flushing our <span class=SpellE>steepled</span>
faces,<o:p></o:p></span></p>

<p class=MsoNormal style='margin-left:.75in;text-indent:-.25in;mso-layout-grid-align:
none;text-autospace:none'><span class=GramE><span style='font-family:Arial'>and</span></span><span
style='font-family:Arial'> the thick flow of death winnows down the window like
grass.<o:p></o:p></span></p>

<p class=MsoNormal><span style='font-family:Arial'><o:p>&nbsp;</o:p></span></p>

<p class=MsoNormal><span style='font-family:Arial'>The &#8220;Greek maxims&#8221; that are
being rejected here can be read I think precisely in terms of </span><st1:City><st1:place><span
  style='font-family:Arial'>Duncan</span></st1:place></st1:City><span
style='font-family:Arial'> and beyond him the modernist project, of which he
represents (at least here) the last moment.<o:p></o:p></span></p>

<p class=MsoNormal><span style='font-family:Arial'><o:p>&nbsp;</o:p></span></p>

<p class=MsoNormal><span style='font-family:Arial'>&#8220;</span><st1:City><st1:place><span
  style='font-family:Arial'>Pompeii</span></st1:place></st1:City><span
style='font-family:Arial'>&#8221; reveals another aspect of </span><st1:City><st1:place><span
  style='font-family:Arial'>Stanley</span></st1:place></st1:City><span
style='font-family:Arial'>&#8217;s art &#8211; its penchant for elegy. &#8220;<span class=SpellE>Attis</span>,&#8221;
one of </span><st1:City><st1:place><span style='font-family:Arial'>Stanley</span></st1:place></st1:City><span
style='font-family:Arial'>&#8217;s later </span><st1:City><st1:place><span
  style='font-family:Arial'>San Francisco</span></st1:place></st1:City><span
style='font-family:Arial'> poems, and one that I&#8217;ve always read as a kind of
deliberate farewell, is as successful an elegy as has been written in the last
50 years:<o:p></o:p></span></p>

<p class=MsoNormal><span style='font-family:Arial'><o:p>&nbsp;</o:p></span></p>

<p class=MsoNormal style='margin-left:.5in;mso-layout-grid-align:none;
text-autospace:none'><span style='font-family:Arial'>This is dying, to cut off
a part of <span class=GramE>yourself</span><o:p></o:p></span></p>

<p class=MsoNormal style='margin-left:.5in;mso-layout-grid-align:none;
text-autospace:none'><span class=GramE><span style='font-family:Arial'>and</span></span><span
style='font-family:Arial'> let it grow.<o:p></o:p></span></p>

<p class=MsoNormal style='margin-left:.5in;mso-layout-grid-align:none;
text-autospace:none'><span style='font-family:Arial'><o:p>&nbsp;</o:p></span></p>

<p class=MsoNormal style='margin-left:1.0in;text-indent:.5in;mso-layout-grid-align:
none;text-autospace:none'><span style='font-family:Arial'>The whole self<o:p></o:p></span></p>

<p class=MsoNormal style='margin-left:.5in;mso-layout-grid-align:none;
text-autospace:none'><span class=GramE><span style='font-family:Arial'>crawls</span></span><span
style='font-family:Arial'> at the thought of being mutilated,<o:p></o:p></span></p>

<p class=MsoNormal style='margin-left:.5in;mso-layout-grid-align:none;
text-autospace:none'><span class=GramE><span style='font-family:Arial'>even</span></span><span
style='font-family:Arial'> self-mutilated, as occurred to me<o:p></o:p></span></p>

<p class=MsoNormal style='margin-left:.5in;mso-layout-grid-align:none;
text-autospace:none'><span class=GramE><span style='font-family:Arial'>when</span></span><span
style='font-family:Arial'> you mentioned you had never looked at<o:p></o:p></span></p>

<p class=MsoNormal style='margin-left:.5in;mso-layout-grid-align:none;
text-autospace:none'><span class=GramE><span style='font-family:Arial'>the</span></span><span
style='font-family:Arial'> poem about <span class=SpellE>Attis</span>, and
neither had I<o:p></o:p></span></p>

<p class=MsoNormal style='margin-left:.5in;mso-layout-grid-align:none;
text-autospace:none'><span style='font-family:Arial'><o:p>&nbsp;</o:p></span></p>

<p class=MsoNormal style='margin-left:.5in;mso-layout-grid-align:none;
text-autospace:none'><span class=GramE><span style='font-family:Arial'>nor</span></span><span
style='font-family:Arial'> at where in a poem feeling dries up &#8211;<o:p></o:p></span></p>

<p class=MsoNormal style='margin-left:.5in;mso-layout-grid-align:none;
text-autospace:none'><span style='font-family:Arial'>A waterfall-filled Sierra
canyon dammed<o:p></o:p></span></p>

<p class=MsoNormal style='margin-left:.5in;mso-layout-grid-align:none;
text-autospace:none'><span class=SpellE><span class=GramE><span
style='font-family:Arial'>Hetch</span></span></span><span class=GramE><span
style='font-family:Arial'> <span class=SpellE>Hetchy</span> of our spirit.</span></span><span
style='font-family:Arial'> <span class=SpellE>Attis&#8217;s</span><o:p></o:p></span></p>

<p class=MsoNormal style='margin-left:.5in;mso-layout-grid-align:none;
text-autospace:none'><span class=GramE><span style='font-family:Arial'>cock</span></span><span
style='font-family:Arial'>, in some tree, in some jug of wine<o:p></o:p></span></p>

<p class=MsoNormal style='margin-left:.5in;mso-layout-grid-align:none;
text-autospace:none'><span class=GramE><span style='font-family:Arial'>or</span></span><span
style='font-family:Arial'> beautiful lips mouthing Who we love<o:p></o:p></span></p>

<p class=MsoNormal style='margin-left:.5in;mso-layout-grid-align:none;
text-autospace:none'><span class=GramE><span style='font-family:Arial'>growing</span></span><span
style='font-family:Arial'>.<o:p></o:p></span></p>

<p class=MsoNormal style='margin-left:.5in;mso-layout-grid-align:none;
text-autospace:none'><span style='font-family:Arial'><o:p>&nbsp;</o:p></span></p>

<p class=MsoNormal style='margin-left:.5in;mso-layout-grid-align:none;
text-autospace:none'><span style='font-family:Arial'>So the fireflies go, with
small lunchboxes,<o:p></o:p></span></p>

<p class=MsoNormal style='margin-left:.5in;mso-layout-grid-align:none;
text-autospace:none'><span class=GramE><span style='font-family:Arial'>mooning</span></span><span
style='font-family:Arial'> around trees. We cut<o:p></o:p></span></p>

<p class=MsoNormal style='margin-left:.5in;mso-layout-grid-align:none;
text-autospace:none'><span class=GramE><span style='font-family:Arial'>our</span></span><span
style='font-family:Arial'> conversation off, too, in sacrifice<o:p></o:p></span></p>

<p class=MsoNormal style='margin-left:.5in;mso-layout-grid-align:none;
text-autospace:none'><span style='font-family:Arial'><o:p>&nbsp;</o:p></span></p>

<p class=MsoNormal style='margin-left:.5in;mso-layout-grid-align:none;
text-autospace:none'><span style='font-family:Arial'>Birds,<o:p></o:p></span></p>

<p class=MsoNormal style='margin-left:.5in;mso-layout-grid-align:none;
text-autospace:none'><span class=GramE><span style='font-family:Arial'>brinks</span></span><span
style='font-family:Arial'>, even<o:p></o:p></span></p>

<p class=MsoNormal style='margin-left:.5in;mso-layout-grid-align:none;
text-autospace:none'><span class=GramE><span style='font-family:Arial'>our</span></span><span
style='font-family:Arial'> whole environment, out to the farthest star<o:p></o:p></span></p>

<p class=MsoNormal style='margin-left:.5in;mso-layout-grid-align:none;
text-autospace:none'><span class=GramE><span style='font-family:Arial'>you</span></span><span
style='font-family:Arial'> can never reach<o:p></o:p></span></p>

<p class=MsoNormal style='margin-left:.5in;mso-layout-grid-align:none;
text-autospace:none'><span style='font-family:Arial'>(<span class=GramE>because</span>
of light&#8217;s unchanging speed)<o:p></o:p></span></p>

<p class=MsoNormal style='margin-left:.5in;mso-layout-grid-align:none;
text-autospace:none'><span class=GramE><span style='font-family:Arial'>and</span></span><span
style='font-family:Arial'> so your dying can never reach either &#8211;<o:p></o:p></span></p>

<p class=MsoNormal style='margin-left:.5in;mso-layout-grid-align:none;
text-autospace:none'><span style='font-family:Arial'><o:p>&nbsp;</o:p></span></p>

<p class=MsoNormal style='margin-left:.5in;mso-layout-grid-align:none;
text-autospace:none'><span style='font-family:Arial'>Blood,<o:p></o:p></span></p>

<p class=MsoNormal style='margin-left:.5in;mso-layout-grid-align:none;
text-autospace:none'><span class=GramE><span style='font-family:Arial'>not</span></span><span
style='font-family:Arial'> sinking into the ground, mysteriously,<o:p></o:p></span></p>

<p class=MsoNormal style='margin-left:.5in;mso-layout-grid-align:none;
text-autospace:none'><span class=GramE><span style='font-family:Arial'>but</span></span><span
style='font-family:Arial'> in the Roman sewers, forever, our home town.<o:p></o:p></span></p>

<p class=MsoNormal><span style='font-family:Arial'><o:p>&nbsp;</o:p></span></p>

<p class=MsoNormal><span style='font-family:Arial'>There is a moment of grief
in that last phrase that Spicer could never have managed, and </span><st1:City><st1:place><span
  style='font-family:Arial'>Duncan</span></st1:place></st1:City><span
style='font-family:Arial'> never imagined. <o:p></o:p></span></p>

<p class=MsoNormal><span style='font-family:Arial'><o:p>&nbsp;</o:p></span></p>

<p class=MsoNormal><span style='font-family:Arial'>Because Davies &amp; Fagin
generally steered from including work that is still in print, <i
style='mso-bidi-font-style:normal'>A Serious Girl </i>offers something akin to
an entropic reading in </span><st1:City><st1:place><span style='font-family:
  Arial'>Stanley</span></st1:place></st1:City><span style='font-family:Arial'>&#8217;s
career, with eight poems totaling 40 pages representing </span><st1:City><st1:place><span
  style='font-family:Arial'>Stanley</span></st1:place></st1:City><span
style='font-family:Arial'>&#8217;s first four years of writing, then seven poems (but
only 16 pages) for two years spent in </span><st1:State><st1:place><span
  style='font-family:Arial'>New York</span></st1:place></st1:State><span
style='font-family:Arial'>, followed by 13 poems for the final nine years in </span><st1:City><st1:place><span
  style='font-family:Arial'>San Francisco</span></st1:place></st1:City><span
style='font-family:Arial'>, then just 35 for the final thirty years in British
Columbia. But if </span><st1:City><st1:place><span style='font-family:Arial'>Stanley</span></st1:place></st1:City><span
style='font-family:Arial'> emigrated physically from </span><st1:City><st1:place><span
  style='font-family:Arial'>San Francisco</span></st1:place></st1:City><span
style='font-family:Arial'>, he appears never to have done so as poet. The streets
and locales of </span><st1:City><st1:place><span style='font-family:Arial'>San
  Francisco</span></st1:place></st1:City><span style='font-family:Arial'> are
as constant in the last half of the book as in the first. Indeed, the longest
poem of all is entitled &#8220;</span><st1:City><st1:place><span style='font-family:
  Arial'>San Francisco</span></st1:place></st1:City><span style='font-family:
Arial'>&#8217;s Gone.&#8221;<o:p></o:p></span></p>

<p class=MsoNormal><span style='font-family:Arial'><o:p>&nbsp;</o:p></span></p>

<p class=MsoNormal><span style='font-family:Arial'>The elegy </span><st1:State><st1:place><span
  style='font-family:Arial'>ind</span></st1:place></st1:State><span
style='font-family:Arial'>ex hasn&#8217;t dropped much either. </span><st1:City><st1:place><span
  style='font-family:Arial'>Stanley</span></st1:place></st1:City><span
style='font-family:Arial'> illuminates why in a passage of the relatively
recent &#8220;At Andy&#8217;s,&#8221; one of the few pieces actually set in </span><st1:country-region><st1:place><span
  style='font-family:Arial'>Canada</span></st1:place></st1:country-region><span
style='font-family:Arial'>:<o:p></o:p></span></p>

<p class=MsoNormal><span style='font-family:Arial'><o:p>&nbsp;</o:p></span></p>

<p class=MsoNormal style='margin-left:.5in;mso-layout-grid-align:none;
text-autospace:none'><span style='font-family:Arial'>Poetry means (a) I&#8217;m going
to die &#8211; &amp; (b) this notebook will be read by someone who will see how
lacking I am &#8211; unless I destroy it &#8211; &amp; I can&#8217;t do that &#8211; that would be
worse than keeping it &#8211; that would mean thinking of it.<o:p></o:p></span></p>

<p class=MsoNormal><span style='font-family:Arial'><o:p>&nbsp;</o:p></span></p>

<p class=MsoNormal><span style='font-family:Arial'>As this prose passage
suggests, </span><st1:City><st1:place><span style='font-family:Arial'>Stanley</span></st1:place></st1:City><span
style='font-family:Arial'>&#8217;s style has relaxed some in recent years &#8211; even if
his obsessions haven&#8217;t &#8211; not unlike (although generally not as much as)
Creeley&#8217;s later work. Yet the volume&#8217;s most taut &#8211; and best &#8211; poem is its very
last, &#8220;</span><st1:State><st1:place><span class=SpellE><span style='font-family:
  Arial'>Veracruz</span></span></st1:place></st1:State><span style='font-family:
Arial'>,&#8221; a remarkable gender-bending piece of autoerotic incest fantasy in
which </span><st1:City><st1:place><span style='font-family:Arial'>Stanley</span></st1:place></st1:City><span
style='font-family:Arial'> declares his desire to have been &#8220;a tall, serious
girl.&#8221; In this poem, which I&#8217;m not going to quote so that you&#8217;ll have to go out
&amp; buy this book, all the promise of </span><st1:City><st1:place><span
  style='font-family:Arial'>San Francisco</span></st1:place></st1:City><span
style='font-family:Arial'>&#8217;s Golden Boy is fulfilled. <o:p></o:p></span></p>

<p class=MsoNormal><span style='font-family:Arial'><o:p>&nbsp;</o:p></span></p>

<p class=MsoNormal><span style='font-family:Arial'><o:p>&nbsp;</o:p></span></p>

<p class=MsoNormal><span style='font-family:Arial'><o:p>&nbsp;</o:p></span></p>

<p class=MsoNormal><span style='font-family:Arial'><o:p>&nbsp;</o:p></span></p>

<p class=MsoNormal><span style='font-size:10.0pt;font-family:Arial'>* Even in
the late 1970s, George Stanley&#8217;s star power in </span><st1:City><st1:place><span
  style='font-size:10.0pt;font-family:Arial'>San Francisco</span></st1:place></st1:City><span
style='font-size:10.0pt;font-family:Arial'> was impressive. As I noted in the
blog on <a
href="http://writing.upenn.edu/epc/mirrors/ronsilliman.blogspot.com/2002_09_22_ronsilliman_archive.html%2381947753">September
22</a>, when </span><st1:City><st1:place><span style='font-size:10.0pt;
  font-family:Arial'>Stanley</span></st1:place></st1:City><span
style='font-size:10.0pt;font-family:Arial'> read with Ted Berrigan at the Grand
Piano, each brought half of the overflow crowd. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
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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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