What Desmond Swords is building on, and enormously skillfully, too, is the core linguistic acrobatics of British comedy, “The Importance of Being Earnest,” “Ulysses,” “Playboy of the Western World,” “A Clockwork Orange,” and of course almost everybody Desmond drinks with in Dublin (how I’d love to be a fly on the wall!). But he’s also engaged in the whole Monty Python affair, John Clease, Spike Milligan, Peter Sellers, etc. etc. Just at the moment the most brilliant in that whole constellation of very bright stars is the young comedian Sacha Baron Cohen, and particularly in his extraordinary, ethnic-what? straight-faced, mind-bender, ‘Ali G’ — the interviewer in the TV hit, “Ali G indahouse.” Hysterical, and a VERY uncomfortable but huge force for the good.

Americans are starting to get to know just how unnerving this sort of comedy can be after having been exposed to Sacha Baron Cohen’s journey through America interviewing, yes, you guessed it, you and me. The film is called “Borat: Cultural Learnings of America for Make Benefit Glorious Nation of Kazakhstan,” and I defy any American to stand up and say he or she hasn’t at some point been keenly disturbed by some part of it — I certainly have. And his new film, “Bruno,” which has just been released, is even more in your (our!) face. It’s purpose is to expose homophobia in America, a very good cause indeed, but it has hit an equally raw, indeed an agonizing, unacceptable nerve in the gay community itself. What an irony!

When I read Desmond’s last post I had this very funny idea of a new show called “Ali G indapoetryhouse,” starring all of us on Harriet!

I think Maxine Kumin would understand the humor of that — what I find most moving about Annie Finch’s account of her just above is how easily Maxine can laugh not only at herself but at poets!

Christopher

Only now it’s been delivered for group hugs, does one appreciate just what it is about beat and timing four by four, that a latino Hellenes of Aeolia in Pagasetic perhaps – is the you new NRG Al (if you do, get the drift); currency of and in: linguistic meaning.

The fave hot top for gas and goss shots in weighty glamour, one might say, non?.. undecided and eyeing the good from it: this very special gift and – further – indebted to Finch’s colleagues in pob-biz home@work t/here in that quantum state of knowing how making it happens. The four Aeolian’s energy consumption amounts to a bean counting hill of sub-linguino 4×4 all in the O and one of s/eh because, we flew alone, neither this school nor that camp. Hoss.

No, NRG is happening with the celebrity (nonentities) of no amount but air, dust, rusting sculptures and ques for a spot on Pliny’s shoulder to watch what’s happening in a Square on of here and now hi-viz NRG on Friday night’s happening in Hellenes where am Annie dearest deepest cano and anruth – Ollamh Al’s just proven prophecy hit true Finch you star of Peace and belonging in the woods with cuckoos’ tu-wit tu-wooing you don’t know who s/he is: do you?

A massive and smiling presence doing his own thing and not detracting nor adding any overall irregularity to what show-business one detects happening on campus there in a solid yet contemporary faux oak golden dusk of that corrider (is it please Ann?); where that photograph room’s situated in Bowdoin mon femme souer M&Afk with mon amis, frère bro Al and D in Bowdoin, where all is cool and perfect on that summer night in Maine.

The warm wake of a great reading—a strong and vivid event, Max.. and Dav.. introduced with heart and thought by a Stonecoast stude.., each reaching a powerful and somehow..shared place

…one read six day back when I thought Finch had finally left; gone for good from the hall of Harriet learning: and lo and behold we’re rewarded with this snap that shows (alas) nothing of the signings and REAL hugs happening that night in Bowdoin, several hours after the photo got took, i suspect.

Hello Al Dave and Max: say Hi, i dare you darling dearest fair mob of po-biz old pros. Fantasy of thrown away snaps of Max, her assistant Suzy; and trailing quietly to the front watching Max off her brick caned and demolishing the staircase after losing her keys and booking a tripple A felony of cats all loaded and being mad as Jack and Al – the man doing prophecy t/here Finch, is – do you know?

Fairly fantasy flowers coltsfoot; lilac lavender lillies, the fairest liveable call lived in a very glowing of each mili-secondary moment spun and spooling out of Bowdoin NOW in Suzy’s picture here at t/here nemeton : beginning with a call to oaken college campus studes and staff agreeing it was made – right here, standing stock still and facing forward with confidence and love for all of us@home in work. Do you see mister Po armed oppo of resistance and excessive opportunity’s in po-biz?

Ques on tape of Dave asking Max and Ann up for a round of “Hmmm,” or nea?”

Stonecoast Suzy Colt 2009 photo: it is/was I think: mostly wo/man filling time/s out twice and saying

“..it doesn’t look like a turn to me because you don’t bother to say anything about the course max. No way. Alexs Pate says.

“It looks like it goes straight” to me and “…well, there was a small turn down there, but for gawds sake, fork off M@S, traverse a narrow corridor to the front door: let me take you into the confidence of these arms and..

“Two roads diverged in a narrow wood,” says Max, as Dave asks: “not in a yellow wood sing I; but in Bowdoin where two roads diverging into a gold rod of ancient wood and bells so old, only a tissue thin milisecond of our goodbye can alter the one lone travelers’ long hello?

Come I stood undaunted inside the travelling rod of noise soft ‘n loud in a harmony of discordant sorries’ Bowdoin: through and through travelling both for YOU and, like, S, a retired horse whisperer and lawyer tending bar; who swallowed a taste of the shock?

“I’m rambling again, it’s not Frost, it’s actually ME mad axe marm doin it 4 da YO’s!! undaunted, of course, soldiering on as we approach an inner chamber where decision/s need be made for the good of a group hug remaining equal and showing favour only to those who move one so to glass maimed doors in Maine oftener and oftener until a sun swung back up left to us at dawn and we, who come in twos, open it and pass through a small dusky vestibule smelling of new to an outer door, where there is always the one lone travelers’ long goodbye stood, looking up and down as far as one goes: on and on to where it curves up and under and walks a lone aided bent and worn undertrhumb of knowing time’s growth is stroll in the woods, to wit: YOU who walks through a storm with your head held high, who don’t be afraid of the dark. And at the end of the storm there’s a golden star and the sweet silver song of a lark. So don’t be afraid of the storm: walk on, through the wind; walk on, through the rain and your dreams be tossed and blown. Walk on. Walk on, with hope in your heart – and you’ll never walk alone.

You’ll never walk alone – our audience sung.

Good story, well told. At first I feared the piece was going to veer off into sentimentality, but my fear was completely unfounded.

Anyway, Annie Finch I wanted to say that your piece has gestalt. And then I realized how the piece effortlessly threads its way through three generations of poets by means of a single poem. Like I said. Elegant.

Terreson

What you’ve written here is what I’m looking for, Annie, and trust you to deliver it. We’re just going to have to go off and do this on our own in the end–and you’ll know exactly where I mean. There don’t have to be any red and green penises over there either, thank God.

I’ve been watching this thread because I like it so much too and couldn’t understand why nobody else seemed interested. Indeed, this sort of concern seems to have entirely gone out of favor on Harriet, but then the stars do move and the planets change faces. But I find it sad, because it’s this sort of article that I most value on Harriet,

Since I’m here I’d like to add a footnote to my previous post. I know trout fishing sounds like polo in our day, but in my father’s trout fishing meant what you did in the spring and the summer and trapping all the rest of the months of the year. My father was an avid trapper with snow shoes and steel traps swing over his shoulder.

The polo was the tragedy from which I never recovered. But that’s a story for winter.

Be well, Annie. Come back often.

Christopher

Terreson