First, thanks to Lawrence for his clarification that his remark doesn't apply
to me. I now drop this.
As for the rest, I can scarcely believe that yet again all discussion is
swamped out. Ah yes, let's talk about Ted Hughes again. Let's not be poets
living in the world, because that's not poetry. "Oh Oliver, and a few, very
few comrades, shouting in the Hollow Room, come back, come back behind the
green baize club door because there, on the card table, is a little pile of
plasticine we call Parnassus. We are currently engaged in savagely swiping at
it with our fists. Wy not join in?
The Buffalo listees, at least, like talking to each other as fellow writers,
without fearing they're going to become engaged in uncomfortable politics.
cris asserted a while back that these were not hollow times. But I think he
was thinking of the manifold possibilities that are presented for
poetic/performance development. A civilisation so knowingly heading towards
the creation of planetary damage on a so far unprecedented scale and which has
in the last 10 years voted in a global system whose corrective mechanisms are
almost designer-customed to work too late to prevent the disappearance of so
many animal species, and so on (all the clichés hurry near in their foreboding
obviousness), that civilisation may certainly be called hollow. And a poetry
which thinks these issues should be hustled off its cosy chat pages would be
hollow too -- at least in its halls of discussion.
Hoh! Hoh! Anybody there? (Faint echo . . . Hi Doug! Don't be such a silly
shit!)
Doughorror or is that dough horror?
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