Cain:

*eyes that glimmer like silk"

Deasmhumah can only moo in return
soon dearest at prance in yr head


*the squares slop ellipses" Eliot

*squares slop ellipses" eye Tom

*praying, & wroth with the bells"

His music alone, the horacian ode

"on a bridle-path of tongues"

~

Thus far Cain is all there, thank you very much. This work is of a very high
quality. It gave me a somehwhat similar Housemanean tingle only the work of
a Monk has thus bestowed upon my intellect and reason (and of course her
partner in rhyme of the objects which first alerted one to the genius of
Hasley.

Here was poetry at it's finest i thought, affected by it as only a Baraka
can and Jones can't, the real Mohamed, Ali and the man whom i pray to most,
mister Wayne, john wayne this is top class and thank you very much.

knowing i can appear foolish on behalf of the Group. a sacraficial goat,
thus bestowing upon oneself the monicker of natural blabberer mooin for love...

Þ ∏ ◊∫ ∑ ∑

please can you give the direct translation of the above glyphs, if -- as
ogam -- they constitute part of an almost "forgotten* alphabet..

my immediate instinct was to place ∑ as a greek letter. not knowing any
Greek letters i am not the worlds most correct classically trained assistant
 and having only a branch of ohm to wit from; i dunno..


~

that was my first thought, and when i googled ∑ there was zero return, so
the evidence thus far, suggests my first instinct may in fact be incorrect,
which means i am right that the Mixes Bracken poem on the page at Tableaux,
is something worth getting worked up about, as contemporary poetry which
excites at least one member of the audience enough; to wit a response in
prose: to explore a fellow traveler's mind and imagination; for love first,
i detect in your work.


It is too soon to be getting full on praising, as to be fair and full, i wld
have to state straight out; i cannot read the mother of my own language, but
once a yr; and to hear a lone return of the stumbling british child running
in, laughing and in love, to her alone, mother earth, ungrateful i wuz also
searching for a key to who s/he could be, happy birthday mum..

reading a language i do not have; (well, at least one) with which to wit
and woo back into the silence, for she who i love, my Cabra mother from the
far west of Connachta, Bahola is half of me. all of she who i love,
composing thus for her and we, the English's of Mayo, the lastest one a
singer, Michael the new O'Connell crooning with a wesht so west i cannot
compete, but only love and moo back, thumbs up, this is the stuff of passion
and hearbreak. Three languages, four and five with greek and latin, the
polyglot can speak and your imagery is very very powerful and unique. ollamh
stuff, right here and now, composed sapience of the real oracular oaths of
proof.

For many reasons this poem affected me and for many different reasons, this
multiplicity of approach in yr writing is uniquely distinct, and readable to
the better class of bluffer scuffing on these sacred clever cobbles of
intelligent and thoughtful duffers prepared to flop first and create work
which is speculative and showing clear signs of an imagination raring at
full pitch. Art it is, and most definitely so.

And poesis, live and in print, this goes on a shelf which prior to its
coming into my life, contained very few others. Indeed the coming of Mixes
Bracken for me, i rank right up their with H, M and PM of the LA ollamh full
on the immram to another world of pure speculation, unadulterated
intelligent and classy gear on show, off site.

Please forgive me for shamelessly using your own work of far greater threat
to me as a bore than say..ooh i dunno,s/he who cannot be named, using our
physical self as oracular guidance managers co bossing on the list, making
sure only classically trained sailors get aboard our ship to the real
Muldoon, mister poetry himself, s/he who slips from sight upon returning to
reality, the speculative discourse mister Sheppard, Bob Sheppard, my bezzie
mate on the board reckons does a bit of good. Makes us totally unemployable
and fit for nowt but talking blather, about the very very serious state of
Gary Synder say, and Mick, Mclure himself, jack the daddy of em all, the
best live poet of the last centurt, first tv legendary laureate getting by
on looks and love alone, the price of his face, only Al knew, he knew
that..and Greg, greg always knew he wasn't messing, he knew the broken days
and nights of his Wilde mate, he knew, Oscar had it, and you too Cain, thank
you very much..


gra agus siochainn


*the secret rosary of the corncrake

wattles & woodwork made ◊ ◊

on the incline of a microscope

the sacred cairn & the rath

shall rub a plaster

with mattock & spade*

love

*blue thicket chalk chalk*

... (swords edit)

*its image the buried ≠

unglorious, the ∫ stood


one, caught in your net*


Séamas Cain