yes, Nate, thanks, he's a reclaiming man, isn't he, rather than a declaiming
disclaim. must dash - much thinking food and - dotto- me metapaws are on the
boil
david
----- Original Message -----
From: Nate and Jane Dorward <[log in to unmask]>
To: david.bircumshaw <[log in to unmask]>; brit poets
<[log in to unmask]>
Sent: Wednesday, August 23, 2000 10:18 AM
Subject: Re: Quid 5
> David--the most recent Coolidge book is indeed remarkable & quite
different
> from previous work: though Coolidge is best-known perhaps for book-length
> projects like _The Crystal Text_ I feel that it's the shorter poems, as
> collected in books like _Odes of Roba_ & _Sound as Thought_, along with
the
> recent _On the Nameways_, that perhaps most immediately demonstrate his
> strengths. The latest book is a lot looser & lighter than much of the
> earlier work (Coolidge had often worked with dense blocks of prose or
verse,
> with interlocking short sentences)--the lines sort of fragmentary,
> multidirectional. The diction is also expanding in new directions, still
> keeping that core of hard words ("rock", "vug", "node"....) but taking in
> much else. -- In short, a departure & a continuation of the great 1980s
> work. I'll toss in a couple poems from the book below--the first a little
> ironic squib, the second the longest poem in a book of short poems. --N
>
> Nate & Jane Dorward
> [log in to unmask]
> THE GIG magazine: http://www.geocities.com/ndorward/
> 109 Hounslow Ave., Willowdale, ON, M2N 2B1, Canada
> ph: (416) 221 6865
>
> ---
>
> CUSTOMER
>
> Walked a million miles
> faked a million styles
> hooked a million flies
> hawked a million smiles
> fucked a million guys
> in my
>
> Maidenform saddlehorn
> intercom tempest-torn
> porcelain candycorn
> acetylene clip-on
> clit
>
>
> NEXT DOOR WAS A WATCH
>
> Barely delivered diamonds
> of wood and the man who lives there
> Wilton Brown
> of the preliminary patches
> and old desert soak
> who kept his border vines on no latch
> clipped the TV to an open scene before
> they totaled scads of retractions
> a noble vented interior
> with vegetable smites and
> everything the viburnum could bring
> on cold coastal tuesdays
> beginnings on the range
> had he lost his back passages?
> a hickory slot in the tubal rows
> gave me liquid ships
> pedal paregoric and extra stamps
> past the padded masts
> a career of club base toddies
> stump as fulcrum of fissures
> and did he mine stars from
> his blue-dark closets?
> a velvet cob setting to hand?
> the layout of his beltways
> came home to roll chairs
> and a visible soup
> or attic soap
> or the wings of a roof that
> would later torch it
> churn man of my window's math
> his strict tooth his dry cast
> and his named muds
>
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