Comments on: No, You Shut Up! http://www.poetryfoundation.org/harriet/2009/03/no-you-shut-up/ A blog from the Poetry Foundation where contemporary poets debate classic and contemporary poetry from America and around the world. Sun, 21 Mar 2010 22:38:48 -0500 http://wordpress.org/?v=2.8.4 hourly 1 By: thomas brady http://www.poetryfoundation.org/harriet/2009/03/no-you-shut-up/#comment-8392 thomas brady Thu, 02 Apr 2009 02:34:56 +0000 http://pf/harriet/?p=1309#comment-8392 A puff piece on the Dickmans in the April 6 "New Yorker" by Rebecca Mead. A full page photo of them, seated, looking wan. Mead does quote Michael Schiavo: "the Dickman twins have put their life story, not their poetry, front and center, have made that the reason you should find them interesting." But then she responds, "In fact, the Dickman twins have made efforts to resist the pairing of their work, as does Michael Wiegers, the executive of Copper Canyon..." Yet the entire thrust of the piece is how interesting it is that these guys are twins; it portrays them as co-authors of each other's work, almost, and tries desperately to make their lives seem as interesting as possible, when the only key facts that emerge, really, are that they played the strange twins in the movie "Minority Report" and their step-aunt is Sharon Olds. Oh, yea, they know a lot of poets and Matthew had a date with Allen Ginsberg. The Dickmans are lower-middle class and they like books and they love poetry, and Mead tries hard to make this sound like the most interesting thing in the world. Snippets of poems quoted don't reveal poetry that's really that good (and sometimes sounds pretty awful) and there's stuff that makes you wince, like when Matthew tells the Ginsberg story, "So we went up to his hotel room, and he orders a gin-and-tonic for me, and I am sitting there smoking Export 'A' cigarettes and eating chocolates that have been left on his pillow, and he and I have this incredible conversation about poetry." 'Incredible conversation about poetry.' I guess it's sweet of Matthew to say that. In my post above I tagged Matthew as Bukowskian, and sure enough, here in the article Matthew says, "Reading Bukowski was, like, 'Wow, you can write about anything...I recognized the type of masculinity in those poems--the injured, desperate bravado." Their mother sounds like a good, dedicated person, and the Dickmans sound like OK guys, but are they, or is their poetry, really that interesting? I don't think so. A puff piece on the Dickmans in the April 6 “New Yorker” by Rebecca Mead.

A full page photo of them, seated, looking wan.

Mead does quote Michael Schiavo: “the Dickman twins have put their life story, not their poetry, front and center, have made that the reason you should find them interesting.”

But then she responds, “In fact, the Dickman twins have made efforts to resist the pairing of their work, as does Michael Wiegers, the executive of Copper Canyon…”

Yet the entire thrust of the piece is how interesting it is that these guys are twins; it portrays them as co-authors of each other’s work, almost, and tries desperately to make their lives seem as interesting as possible, when the only key facts that emerge, really, are that they played the strange twins in the movie “Minority Report” and their step-aunt is Sharon Olds. Oh, yea, they know a lot of poets and Matthew had a date with Allen Ginsberg. The Dickmans are lower-middle class and they like books and they love poetry, and Mead tries hard to make this sound like the most interesting thing in the world. Snippets of poems quoted don’t reveal poetry that’s really that good (and sometimes sounds pretty awful) and there’s stuff that makes you wince, like when Matthew tells the Ginsberg story, “So we went up to his hotel room, and he orders a gin-and-tonic for me, and I am sitting there smoking Export ‘A’ cigarettes and eating chocolates that have been left on his pillow, and he and I have this incredible conversation about poetry.”

‘Incredible conversation about poetry.’ I guess it’s sweet of Matthew to say that.

In my post above I tagged Matthew as Bukowskian, and sure enough, here in the article Matthew says, “Reading Bukowski was, like, ‘Wow, you can write about anything…I recognized the type of masculinity in those poems–the injured, desperate bravado.”

Their mother sounds like a good, dedicated person, and the Dickmans sound like OK guys, but are they, or is their poetry, really that interesting? I don’t think so.

]]> By: thomas brady http://www.poetryfoundation.org/harriet/2009/03/no-you-shut-up/#comment-8173 thomas brady Thu, 26 Mar 2009 14:29:45 +0000 http://pf/harriet/?p=1309#comment-8173 THE REASONABLE DIONYSIAN Now, back to the Dickmans. John Gallaher’s blog explores the controversy. <a href="http://jjgallaher.blogspot.com/2009/03" rel="nofollow">http://jjgallaher.blogspot.com/2009/03</a> Some interesting comments follow Gallaher’s essay. Does Michael Schiavo know Dickman? Those sorts of issues are raised. And there’s Bill Knott again, defending Dickman’s work in a non-academic, non-theoretical way. OK, fine. But poetry shouldn’t make us stupid. Some have compared poetry to wine, and poetry can intoxicate us, we don’t have to think about it, sure, but critical responses, even negative ones, need not be dismissed for this reason; after all, “in vino veritas.” Gallaher quotes Dickman’s poem “Country Music” in full, which was presented with an intro by Major Jackson in ‘The Boston Review.’ Looking at this poem, it’s pretty easy to see the appeal of Dickman’s work, or more importantly, his strategy, which is, essentially, a Charles Bukowski one, in which testosterone confesses; the hopeless, helpless, punch drunk male tells it like it is. Here’s Dickman from “Country Music:” “But I’ve been drinking. I’m a little messed up and there’s something about cigars and bourbon I no longer want to be a part of. I remember how Kate would slip out of her jeans, her bra. How she appled my body; all that sweet skin and core, the full mouth and pulp. She was like a country song playing underneath an Egyptian cotton sheet, the easy kindness of her body finding its way into mine. But I have a father somewhere. I have a way I’m supposed to walk down the street like a violent decision that hasn’t been made yet. I don’t care how many hours you put in weeding the garden or how much you love modern dance. You’ll still slip back into your knuckles. You can carry your groceries home in your public radio tote bag. You can organize a book club. You can date an Indonesian hippie with dread-locks but you are never far from breaking someone’s jaw.” So, as we can see from this excerpt, here is the important confession: "'But I’ve been drinking.'” He's not just writing a poem. He's drinking and writing a poem. There’s the Dionysian. But it’s a reasonable Dionysian. Here’s the secret of Dickman's ‘poetic appeal.’ He’s been drinking, and yet he can also deliver a common-sense lecture: “I don’t care how many hours you put in/weeding the garden/or how much you love modern dance. You’ll still slip back/into your knuckles.” That’s the strategy in a nutshell. The Reasonable Dionysian. Then Dickman ups the ante in "Country Music" a little bit and makes a full confession, leaving behind the drunken lecture to tell the truth about himself: “When I was twenty-three I went to a party, drank two Coronas, and slapped my girlfriend across the face.” The poem ends with the poet saying he’s sorry, “I wanted someone to beat me” and fades away as it immerses itself in the poet’s seedy environment. This bit of Rousseau-ean apology, however, feels fake to me, just in terms of pure dramatic technique. How in the world in this mad, ‘in-the-moment,’ ignoble act of slapping his girlfriend across the face, do things slow down enough for the poet to overhear a detailed conversation between “two skater kids” so that he can end the poem with someone else’s conversation, someone else’s life, a stabbing which happened to someone else “at the mall?” It seems contrived, which is deadly for what Dickman is trying to do. Sure it feels like a cop-out, Dickman saying, “I’m bad, I slapped my girlfriend, but things are bad all over, a stabbing at the mall, etc,” but what’s worse is the aesthetic choice that’s made in ending the poem this way. This is the problem with the Reasonable Dionysian strategy. For us to believe, or sympathize with, the ‘reason’ of the ‘Dionysian’ poet, the Dionysian aspect can never seem contrived or faked or swept aside for some aesthetic purpose, as it clearly is at the end of “Country Music.” Not that an aesthetic triumph cannot bring a certain Dionysian aspect along with it, but it’s not easy to do. The sober reader is not easily fooled, and “at the mall” as a final line is certainly no aesthetic triumph. It may qualify as gossip, as we overhear the” two skater kids” “talking about a friend,” but the choice to make it end the poem is still an aesthetic one, and aesthetic choices drive the Reasonable Dionysian’s fate, just as it does for all of us. I wanted someone to beat me. I wanted to get thrown into the traffic I had made of my life, to go flying over the couch where two skater kids were smoking pot out of a Pepsi can and talking about a friend who ollied over a parked car the same day he got stabbed at the mall. THE REASONABLE DIONYSIAN
Now, back to the Dickmans.
John Gallaher’s blog explores the controversy.
http://jjgallaher.blogspot.com/2009/03
Some interesting comments follow Gallaher’s essay. Does Michael Schiavo know Dickman? Those sorts of issues are raised.
And there’s Bill Knott again, defending Dickman’s work in a non-academic, non-theoretical way. OK, fine. But poetry shouldn’t make us stupid. Some have compared poetry to wine, and poetry can intoxicate us, we don’t have to think about it, sure, but critical responses, even negative ones, need not be dismissed for this reason; after all, “in vino veritas.”
Gallaher quotes Dickman’s poem “Country Music” in full, which was presented with an intro by Major Jackson in ‘The Boston Review.’
Looking at this poem, it’s pretty easy to see the appeal of Dickman’s work, or more importantly, his strategy, which is, essentially, a Charles Bukowski one, in which testosterone confesses; the hopeless, helpless, punch drunk male tells it like it is.
Here’s Dickman from “Country Music:”
“But I’ve been drinking. I’m a little messed up
and there’s something about cigars and bourbon I no longer want
to be a part of. I remember how Kate would slip out
of her jeans, her bra. How she appled my body;
all that sweet skin and core, the full mouth and pulp.
She was like a country song
playing underneath an Egyptian cotton sheet, the easy kindness
of her body finding its way into mine.
But I have a father somewhere. I have a way
I’m supposed to walk down the street like a violent decision
that hasn’t been made yet.
I don’t care how many hours you put in
weeding the garden
or how much you love modern dance. You’ll still slip back
into your knuckles.
You can carry your groceries home in your public radio tote bag.
You can organize a book club.
You can date an Indonesian hippie with dread-locks
but you are never far from breaking someone’s jaw.”
So, as we can see from this excerpt, here is the important confession:
“‘But I’ve been drinking.’”
He’s not just writing a poem. He’s drinking and writing a poem.
There’s the Dionysian. But it’s a reasonable Dionysian. Here’s the secret of Dickman’s ‘poetic appeal.’ He’s been drinking, and yet he can also deliver a common-sense lecture:
“I don’t care how many hours you put in/weeding the garden/or how much you love modern dance. You’ll still slip back/into your knuckles.”
That’s the strategy in a nutshell. The Reasonable Dionysian.
Then Dickman ups the ante in “Country Music” a little bit and makes a full confession, leaving behind the drunken lecture to tell the truth about himself:
“When I was twenty-three I went to a party,
drank two Coronas, and slapped my girlfriend across the face.”
The poem ends with the poet saying he’s sorry, “I wanted someone to beat me” and fades away as it immerses itself in the poet’s seedy environment. This bit of Rousseau-ean apology, however, feels fake to me, just in terms of pure dramatic technique.
How in the world in this mad, ‘in-the-moment,’ ignoble act of slapping his girlfriend across the face, do things slow down enough for the poet to overhear a detailed conversation between “two skater kids” so that he can end the poem with someone else’s conversation, someone else’s life, a stabbing which happened to someone else “at the mall?” It seems contrived, which is deadly for what Dickman is trying to do. Sure it feels like a cop-out, Dickman saying, “I’m bad, I slapped my girlfriend, but things are bad all over, a stabbing at the mall, etc,” but what’s worse is the aesthetic choice that’s made in ending the poem this way.
This is the problem with the Reasonable Dionysian strategy. For us to believe, or sympathize with, the ‘reason’ of the ‘Dionysian’ poet, the Dionysian aspect can never seem contrived or faked or swept aside for some aesthetic purpose, as it clearly is at the end of “Country Music.” Not that an aesthetic triumph cannot bring a certain Dionysian aspect along with it, but it’s not easy to do. The sober reader is not easily fooled, and “at the mall” as a final line is certainly no aesthetic triumph. It may qualify as gossip, as we overhear the” two skater kids” “talking about a friend,” but the choice to make it end the poem is still an aesthetic one, and aesthetic choices drive the Reasonable Dionysian’s fate, just as it does for all of us.
I wanted someone to beat me.
I wanted to get thrown into the traffic
I had made of my life,
to go flying over the couch
where two skater kids were smoking pot out of a Pepsi can
and talking about a friend
who ollied over a parked car the same day he got stabbed
at the mall.

]]> By: thomas brady http://www.poetryfoundation.org/harriet/2009/03/no-you-shut-up/#comment-8172 thomas brady Wed, 25 Mar 2009 18:40:51 +0000 http://pf/harriet/?p=1309#comment-8172 Henry, The Allen Tate sample is not some obscure piece of juvenilia, either; it's from an anthology of Fugitive poetry by the scholar William Pratt. As for John Gould Fletcher: "Born in Little Rock, Arkansas to a prominent family, John Gould Fletcher entered Harvard University in 1903 to study law. Following the death of his father in 1906, Fletcher withdrew from Harvard to pursue a career as a poet. Supported by the money left to him by his father, he left for Europe and settled in London where he self-published five volumes of poetry in 1913. Influenced first by Ezra Pound and then by Amy Lowell, he became well-known as an Imagist poet with the publication of five additional volumes of poetry and was featured prominently in the annual 'Some Imagist Poets' anthologies. Fletcher married Florence Emily "Daisy" Arbuthnot in 1916. Influenced by the poetry of William Blake and by Oriental art and religion, Fletcher's poetry took on religious undertones for his next three volumes of poetry. He also acquired a reputation as a literary journalist and befriended T. S. Eliot. Fletcher visited Nashville, Tennessee in 1927 as a lecturer and met John Crowe Ransom. He was invited to contribute an essay to the Agrarian manifesto 'I'll Take My Stand' and became a strong supporter of the Agrarian movement. He returned to Little Rock in 1933. After his divorce from Florence Arbuthnot, he married Charlie May Simon. A life-long sufferer from depression, Fletcher drowned himself in 1950." from Vanderbilt U. Archives I've always been puzzled how the Agrarian movement turned into New Criticism. As for the name "fugitive" for the Fugitive School, apparently even the group was not exactly sure where "Fugitive" came from, but I always assumed it came from the following, written by N.P. WIllis, introducing Poe's 'The Raven': "We are permitted to copy (in advance of publication) from the 2d No. of the American Review, the following remarkable poem by EDGAR POE. In our opinion, it is the most effective single example of "fugitive poetry" ever published in this country; and unsurpassed in English poetry for subtle conception, masterly ingenuity of versification, and consistent, sustaining of imaginative lift and "pokerishness." It is one of these "dainties bred in a book" which we feed on. It will stick to the memory of everybody who reads it." Yours, Thomas Henry,
The Allen Tate sample is not some obscure piece of juvenilia, either; it’s from an anthology of Fugitive poetry by the scholar William Pratt.
As for John Gould Fletcher:
“Born in Little Rock, Arkansas to a prominent family, John Gould Fletcher entered Harvard University in 1903 to study law. Following the death of his father in 1906, Fletcher withdrew from Harvard to pursue a career as a poet. Supported by the money left to him by his father, he left for Europe and settled in London where he self-published five volumes of poetry in 1913. Influenced first by Ezra Pound and then by Amy Lowell, he became well-known as an Imagist poet with the publication of five additional volumes of poetry and was featured prominently in the annual ‘Some Imagist Poets’ anthologies. Fletcher married Florence Emily “Daisy” Arbuthnot in 1916. Influenced by the poetry of William Blake and by Oriental art and religion, Fletcher’s poetry took on religious undertones for his next three volumes of poetry. He also acquired a reputation as a literary journalist and befriended T. S. Eliot. Fletcher visited Nashville, Tennessee in 1927 as a lecturer and met John Crowe Ransom. He was invited to contribute an essay to the Agrarian manifesto ‘I’ll Take My Stand’ and became a strong supporter of the Agrarian movement. He returned to Little Rock in 1933. After his divorce from Florence Arbuthnot, he married Charlie May Simon. A life-long sufferer from depression, Fletcher drowned himself in 1950.”
from Vanderbilt U. Archives
I’ve always been puzzled how the Agrarian movement turned into New Criticism.
As for the name “fugitive” for the Fugitive School, apparently even the group was not exactly sure where “Fugitive” came from, but I always assumed it came from the following, written by N.P. WIllis, introducing Poe’s ‘The Raven’:
“We are permitted to copy (in advance of publication) from the 2d No. of the American Review, the following remarkable poem by EDGAR POE. In our opinion, it is the most effective single example of “fugitive poetry” ever published in this country; and unsurpassed in English poetry for subtle conception, masterly ingenuity of versification, and consistent, sustaining of imaginative lift and “pokerishness.” It is one of these “dainties bred in a book” which we feed on. It will stick to the memory of everybody who reads it.”
Yours,
Thomas

]]> By: Henry Gould http://www.poetryfoundation.org/harriet/2009/03/no-you-shut-up/#comment-8171 Henry Gould Wed, 25 Mar 2009 16:16:44 +0000 http://pf/harriet/?p=1309#comment-8171 I don't know, Thomas, if I'm related to John Gould Fletcher. There are a lot of Goulds, spread across wide swaths of These States like a flock of obstreperous geese. But the two of us do seem to share the "minor poet" gene (which strictly alternates, generationally, with the Major Poet gene... oh well, c'est la guerre, as my father, John Gould, is fond of saying). Gosh, that last bit from RP Warren sounds like part of my own Terrible Quatrain series. I can see why they were called "Fugitives".... I'd better high-tail it out of here. I don’t know, Thomas, if I’m related to John Gould Fletcher. There are a lot of Goulds, spread across wide swaths of These States like a flock of obstreperous geese. But the two of us do seem to share the “minor poet” gene (which strictly alternates, generationally, with the Major Poet gene… oh well, c’est la guerre, as my father, John Gould, is fond of saying).
Gosh, that last bit from RP Warren sounds like part of my own Terrible Quatrain series. I can see why they were called “Fugitives”…. I’d better high-tail it out of here.

]]> By: thomas brady http://www.poetryfoundation.org/harriet/2009/03/no-you-shut-up/#comment-8170 thomas brady Wed, 25 Mar 2009 15:21:48 +0000 http://pf/harriet/?p=1309#comment-8170 Henry Gould, you are gold. Odetta. I even know the LP you reference. You are not related, by any chance, to John Gould Fletcher? He is the sole poet who was both an Imagist in London and a Fugitive in Tennessee. The Imagists and the Fugitives are widely considered the two most important groups in 20th century poetry and there is a strong undercurrent of connection between the two. I'm no fan of the Imagists, and I doubt the Dickmans are either, but the Fugitives produced some of the worst poetry ever written. The best of their verse was produced by John Crowe Ransom, but even at his best Ransom was morbid in a Victorian nightmare sort of way, far more morbid than Poe ever was. Allen Tate may have been the worst of the worst. He deserves some kind of Edward Bulwer-Lytton Award for Worst Poet Ever. Here's a sample of Allen Tate's poetry. I don't care what you think about Dickman. Look at this: It had an autumn smell And that was how I knew That I was down a well: I was no longer young; My lips were numb and blue, The air was like find sand In a butcher’s stall Or pumice to the tongue: And when I raised my hand I stood in the empty hall. Even Robert Penn Warren's much anthologized "Bearded Oaks" is a candidate for Worst Poem Ever. Look at the first stanza: The oaks, how subtle and marine, Bearded, and all the layered light Above them swims; and thus the scene, Recessed, awaits the positive night. "How subtle" those oaks were! Boy, they were "subtle," weren't they? And "marine!" The "layered light above them swims," that's how "marine" they were! "And thus the scene, recessed, awaits the positive night." Good grief. Was the Fugitive School the worst ever, or what? Can I hear a Yes? CAN I HEAR A YES? Henry Gould, you are gold.
Odetta. I even know the LP you reference.
You are not related, by any chance, to John Gould Fletcher?
He is the sole poet who was both an Imagist in London and a Fugitive in Tennessee. The Imagists and the Fugitives are widely considered the two most important groups in 20th century poetry and there is a strong undercurrent of connection between the two.
I’m no fan of the Imagists, and I doubt the Dickmans are either, but the Fugitives produced some of the worst poetry ever written. The best of their verse was produced by John Crowe Ransom, but even at his best Ransom was morbid in a Victorian nightmare sort of way, far more morbid than Poe ever was.
Allen Tate may have been the worst of the worst. He deserves some kind of Edward Bulwer-Lytton Award for Worst Poet Ever.
Here’s a sample of Allen Tate’s poetry. I don’t care what you think about Dickman. Look at this:
It had an autumn smell
And that was how I knew
That I was down a well:
I was no longer young;
My lips were numb and blue,
The air was like find sand
In a butcher’s stall
Or pumice to the tongue:
And when I raised my hand
I stood in the empty hall.
Even Robert Penn Warren’s much anthologized “Bearded Oaks” is a candidate for Worst Poem Ever. Look at the first stanza:
The oaks, how subtle and marine,
Bearded, and all the layered light
Above them swims; and thus the scene,
Recessed, awaits the positive night.
“How subtle” those oaks were! Boy, they were “subtle,” weren’t they? And “marine!” The “layered light above them swims,” that’s how “marine” they were! “And thus the scene, recessed, awaits the positive night.” Good grief.
Was the Fugitive School the worst ever, or what?
Can I hear a Yes?
CAN I HEAR A YES?

]]> By: Mary Meriam http://www.poetryfoundation.org/harriet/2009/03/no-you-shut-up/#comment-8169 Mary Meriam Wed, 25 Mar 2009 02:57:25 +0000 http://pf/harriet/?p=1309#comment-8169 Sorry to everyone else, but the only one I read on this whole thread is Henry. Thanks for the laughs, Henry. These are truly brilliant and hilarious. Sorry to everyone else, but the only one I read on this whole thread is Henry. Thanks for the laughs, Henry. These are truly brilliant and hilarious.

]]> By: Henry Gould http://www.poetryfoundation.org/harriet/2009/03/no-you-shut-up/#comment-8168 Henry Gould Wed, 25 Mar 2009 02:38:40 +0000 http://pf/harriet/?p=1309#comment-8168 JOHN ASHBERY IS A BIG FAT IDIOT Let me tell you about the trees there in the saturnine park, or shall we say left field. Since we don't know beans about Col. Chickenhead or his corral, neither will we dream anymore of parvenues in detergent. Our dreams are rash, if you want to know : where was I? Our pleated subsidies or Californian hubbub & so forth. Meanwhile Edgar was tracing the curious path of a noodle that had flown from his nose during a tremendous fit of laughter. Ha! I said, and immediately swallowed my chariot (or chair, if you will. Or 2 chairs.). & the heavens will open when it's time to collect the Lincoln penny from Louise, the harbormaster's neice. (p.s. & copper will rust green, if you know if you know what they meant.) JOHN ASHBERY IS A BIG FAT IDIOT
Let me tell you about the trees
there in the saturnine park, or shall we say
left field. Since we don’t know beans
about Col. Chickenhead or his corral, neither
will we dream anymore of parvenues in detergent.
Our dreams are rash, if you want to know :
where was I? Our pleated subsidies or
Californian hubbub & so forth.
Meanwhile Edgar was tracing the curious path of a noodle
that had flown from his nose during a tremendous fit of laughter.
Ha! I said, and immediately swallowed my chariot (or
chair, if you will. Or 2 chairs.). & the heavens will open
when it’s time to collect the Lincoln penny
from Louise, the harbormaster’s neice.
(p.s. & copper will rust green, if you know
if you know what they meant.)

]]> By: Henry Gould http://www.poetryfoundation.org/harriet/2009/03/no-you-shut-up/#comment-8167 Henry Gould Wed, 25 Mar 2009 02:02:07 +0000 http://pf/harriet/?p=1309#comment-8167 Gary, I don't mean to pick on Mairead - not at all ! & I'm sorry if she or anybody takes it that way. She is perfectly entitled to her opinions about this poet or that. I just thought the Mairead confusion was funny. I was just as confused as Michael Schiavo - & I bet 90% of the other people reading this blog - since Mairead Byrne is the poet who comes to mind, & we doofy Americans don't know that many Maireads in general (I don't, anyway. I do happen to know Mairead Byrne, though - we live in the same town, we've given readings together, & so on.) If Mairead-who-is-not-Byrne will forgive us our confusion, well, I will be happy. Hey, I don't even know the Dickman Bros. poetry. Michael's review simply ignited a poignant serfies of hoots on my part about a certain kind of ingratiating poetry which I don't happen to like. Gary, I don’t mean to pick on Mairead – not at all ! & I’m sorry if she or anybody takes it that way. She is perfectly entitled to her opinions about this poet or that. I just thought the Mairead confusion was funny. I was just as confused as Michael Schiavo – & I bet 90% of the other people reading this blog – since Mairead Byrne is the poet who comes to mind, & we doofy Americans don’t know that many Maireads in general (I don’t, anyway. I do happen to know Mairead Byrne, though – we live in the same town, we’ve given readings together, & so on.) If Mairead-who-is-not-Byrne will forgive us our confusion, well, I will be happy.
Hey, I don’t even know the Dickman Bros. poetry. Michael’s review simply ignited a poignant serfies of hoots on my part about a certain kind of ingratiating poetry which I don’t happen to like.

]]> By: Gary B. Fitzgerald http://www.poetryfoundation.org/harriet/2009/03/no-you-shut-up/#comment-8166 Gary B. Fitzgerald Wed, 25 Mar 2009 00:20:48 +0000 http://pf/harriet/?p=1309#comment-8166 This picking on the Dickman brothers is hilarious, as is the tormenting of any egotistical poet. Slap Ashbery! Trounce Wright! Smack down Muldoon or Kooser! Fair play for public figures. But picking on Mairead is unjust and unseemly. You are behaving like bullies. This picking on the Dickman brothers is hilarious, as is the tormenting of any egotistical poet. Slap Ashbery! Trounce Wright! Smack down Muldoon or Kooser!
Fair play for public figures.
But picking on Mairead is unjust and unseemly. You are behaving like bullies.

]]> By: Henry Gould http://www.poetryfoundation.org/harriet/2009/03/no-you-shut-up/#comment-8165 Henry Gould Wed, 25 Mar 2009 00:07:44 +0000 http://pf/harriet/?p=1309#comment-8165 I WAS FORMED IN THE WOMB BEFORE I WAS DICKMAN I was formed in the womb before I was Dickman. Before I was Dickman, I was Dickman-Dickman; I was my brother; I was you, you were me. I was me. I'm still me. & you, they tell me, are still you - after all the cancelled checks, dates, diamond tiaras, classes, reservations, library holds, hopes. dreams, reality-checks, BMWs, financial systems... I'm still me, you're still you. Even though you won't return my calls, won't even return my laundry... One grain of sand, as the song has it - Odetta, you were my mystery song. One drop of water in the deep blue sea. This is my poem for you from before I was Dickman - when I was you, and you were my poem, and Odetta was my song. This is my song. This is my cancelled check. I WAS FORMED IN THE WOMB BEFORE I WAS DICKMAN
I was formed in the womb before I was Dickman.
Before I was Dickman, I was Dickman-Dickman;
I was my brother; I was you, you were me.
I was me.
I’m still me. & you, they tell me, are still you -
after all the cancelled checks, dates, diamond tiaras, classes, reservations, library holds,
hopes. dreams, reality-checks, BMWs, financial systems… I’m still me, you’re still you.
Even though you won’t return my calls,
won’t even return my laundry…
One grain of sand, as the song has it -
Odetta, you were my mystery song.
One drop of water
in the deep blue sea.
This is my poem for you from before I was Dickman -
when I was you, and you were my poem,
and Odetta was my song.
This is my song.
This is my cancelled check.

]]>