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« After A Phrase By Adam Kirsch [poem by James Cummins] | Main | A Bardd Americanaidd in Wales [by Bob Holman] »

January 20, 2015


Just the idea of language nests is so, so appealing. Just what a nest makes me think of, location of protection, propagation, comfort, where something remains until it can fend for itself... "Native" languages of the "Americas" --would love to have a conversation with you about some of that! --even with just what are the "Americas"--could begin right there...

The way you describe Hawaii makes me regret that I've never been there.

We have so little choice in languages being offered for study; indeed your expression "bully" language is so honest, and also so frightening because the bully language seems unstoppable and in no danger of dying at all; not even a threat. No potentially fatal disease; and only small, hiccups in mispronunciations and so easy to just invent a word, any adaptation of a word, as long as there's some sort of understanding of what it attempted to be expressed.

How difficult to learn English, a primary "bully" language, yet so necessary --just for this blog --are we not being bullies ourselves using it? And can any poetry be as authentic as poetry can be when many of us, such as myself, must rely on its usage? Even with a flair for "English" just what is the authenticity, and if that's not a concern, how do you feel yourself about using the bully language? --your astonishing fluency --and yet, were this very blog written in some other language, would not some of the voting be lost? Is there not an expectation that we read and can understand what you say in this "payback"?

I was not born into a language nest; no such thing around me --proficiency in the bully language was mandated from the start --everything I did served the bully language.... Must think about this further --that's what I like about your blog, gets me thinking --in the "bully" language! Thank you for this post, Bob. Thylias

--and I want to see this too: "And I want you to see David Grubin and me actually getting in the water, up to our knees, daring the Pacific in our bermudas, trying to write a poem while the waves tried to push us over." (especially the bermudas")


Fan #! speaking here! (being listed as "Forker Girl" because I have a typepad blog --in he bully language, of course)


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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

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