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February 15, 2009


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My personal theory as to why poets don't or anyway shouldn't drive cars is that we too often get lost and/or are unintentionally reckless. Because we are muttering to ourselves/singing aloud/talking to the billboards/trying to write and drive at the same time. When I do this on public transport, I may look like I'm chucking a mental but at least I don't run my car off the road or worse.

We in the US have the same asinine copper-coin problem, by the way—they're like lira, they're just worthless, less useful than bobby pins/kirby grips would be as currency, and yet they just keep on a-mintin' them suckers. I remember even in 1995 in Cambridge refusing to bend down and pick up tuppence.

Looking forward to your tenure here.

Around here, if you don't drive, you either stay home or hitch up your horse and buggy
a la the Amish. Public transportation is non-existent.

Super, absolutely marvelous, wonderful profundity and terribly informative. Bravo !

In my handbag, I have lots of lovely stuff I buy at very very superb shops where I go shopping for things that say: This Is Me me me me me !!

I think one's handbag reveals soo much about one, what, what !! and I also think it massively, humungously important, for any serious artist, to get in touch with the inner bag, the buried carrier containing all those super, super clues about who we are as people, lovers, freinds, colleagues, workers doing the jolly hard slog of being, me me me me me, hoorah !!

Please, please, can you write some more about what you're wearing, the colour scheme of your outfit on, say, Tuesday, as a Tuesday sort of person in touch with, you know, what it all means, to be dressed on Tuesday: because it is not only our handbags and clothes which are massively, terribly important darling, but as intellectual custodians of the dual tradition, super, absolutely super. Toodle pip!

Archie Stokes -

Mr. Stokes—wow. Ulcer much?

Well, there you go. It's like the time I wrote up a long informal conversation (as opposed to an interview) with my fellow transatlantic poet Ruth Fainlight, and someone wrote to the publication the same day it came out, saying, "This is a parody, right?"

I was so proud... showed I'd really captured the flavour.

Anyway Archie, I fail to understand in what way my lipsticks are more solipsistic than Don Share's toothbrush, pens and presents. Or did you think he was a phoney too? Or better yet, let's not go there shall we. Or I'll post up a Tiny Tim video.


touche! Brava!

Yowser yozee yo no Baroque, what the bleddy heck are you suggesting my dearest. I aint used the word phoney, t'was but surfin 'n splurgin out, in cyberville, in a democratic space. Don't get soo touchy, hey, come on, you aint phoney babes, you are da main gusher dishing up the prizes, innit, like dead on down wiv de kidz, in an ironical way, just like me.

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I left it
on when I
left the house
for the pleasure
of coming back
ten hours later
to the greatness
of Teddy Wilson
"After You've Gone"
on the piano
in the corner
of the bedroom
as I enter
in the dark

from New and Selected Poems by David Lehman

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This Way Out

by T.P.Winch

Ringfinger was nervous
Pinky terrified
when they learned
that Hand might succumb
to the rule of Thumb.



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