April 17, 2012

Morning birdcalls.

Reading at Posana’s last night. Excellent vodka tonic. M’s new poems were exciting, a new direction for him. The woman who read with him–and whom I’d heard at Downtown Books and News-- was, despite her long list of awards, gawdawful. It was the shape of poetry, the attitude of poetry, without any poetry. Some writers are like those animals that mimic other animals, harmless snakes pretending they’re adders, harmless butterflies pretending they’re bitter poison. They sound like writers, look like writers, have the attitude of writers, so few sit down and consider what is actually being said.