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There is substance in the form of an investigation being conducted by baseball's discipline czar, Frank Robinson , into whether Clemens should be punished for firing a sawed-off piece of Piazza's bat toward the Mets' catcher during the first inning of Game 2, which the Yankees won It's hard to imagine the powers that be suspending Clemens for the rest of the Series.

He is scheduled to start Game 6 at Yankee Stadium, if necessary, and with a suspension, Robinson could single-handedly change the course of the sport's championship, which he is loath to do. Alderson called the bat throw an "unusual incident, and that's why I think we're approaching it with a certain amount of circumspection. Yankees worked out at Shea Stadium. Eighteen hours of reflection did nothing to soften any hard feelings or change anyone's mind about what happened Sunday night.

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Clemens made no apologies for firing the bat piece toward the first- base line after he broke the lumber with a pitch in on Piazza's hands. I wish it would have been someone else. Yankees manager Joe Torre continued to maintain that Clemens did not intentionally throw the bat at Piazza, that high emotions caused Clemens to act the way he did.

In fact, Torre said this is just the way Clemens is, and he needs that hot-pepper persona on the mound to pitch. Now, throwing a bat is obviously not part of that, and it was the wrong thing to do, and I'm still convinced he wasn't throwing it at him. Before Piazza addressed the issue, he pleaded with the media to ask its last questions about the incident and move on, a brave incursion into Fat Chance City.

Then he fueled the fire when he said that Clemens seemed "extremely apologetic and unsure and confused and unstable" when Piazza went to the mound after the bat toss. But Piazza, who cheered Robinson's investigation, has no interest in any mea culpa from Clemens. The guy pitched a good game. I think it is unfortunate that this is the incident that takes precedence over the ballgame. There were plenty of harsh words from others in the Mets' clubhouse, where players scoffed at Clemens' claims that he was merely overcome with emotion, or that he momentarily thought the meat of the bat flying toward him was actually the ball.

You throw the ball at the guy and he's out? That's a ridiculous excuse," said pitcher Turk Wendell , who added that if Clemens had thrown the bat his way, "I'd have been on him like white on rice. Rick Reed , the Mets' starting pitcher in Game 3, argued that Clemens should have been ejected on the spot. I know a lot of people feel that way, maybe some of his teammates. I don't know," Reed said. Like Mitchison seems to have been. I think one sees things more vividly, storing them up, insisting on the moment, at these times. If one is wise. During the last war, when I was a girl, I felt all the time that it was wrong ever to be happy; now I think one should be when possible.

We took care not to shoot the pheasants; it seems odd, when men are shooting one another in Europe, and when we may be much more directly involved in that ourselves, yet I htink it is probably a good idea to be punctilious at the moment about small and silly rules which are not part of this totalitarian plan which is eating us now. Elsewhere she brings up the possibility that most democratic or humanist rights and freedoms, most civil liberties, will disappear during wartime; that it is in enclaves like her village with its discussion groups and Labour meetings and plays that ideas of freedom will survive.

Italian, Austrian, and german immigrants and refugees were being interned in England and shipped to Canada or Australia. Where are the memoirs and histories now, right now, of the Muslim people being detained illegally by our own government? Mitchison often wonders about being detained or exiled or put in a concentration camp herself especially if England were invaded.

I certainly think about it too for myself — the tide could turn very suddenly in the U.

I come up against this again and again. Critical literature focuses on defining a genre, and women end up just outside that definition. Really, though, if you look at the moments when the genre is being defined, the boundaries are arbitrary. Other genres could be declared. With respect to her poetry in particular, critics have often failed to recognize the modernity of its lyric voice on account of its traditional verse patterns.

Reflecting a dual attitude of competition and cooperation with her cultural world, Noailles held a similarly double-voiced discourse toward conventional interpretations of woman. Her classification in literary history as a belated French Romantic further obfuscates the significance of her work.

While recognizing her predecessors, Noailles was frequently unable to find adequate models in their works for a distinct poetic identity. In seeking new versions of the feminine self, she acknowledged women who were unable to write and, more broadly, she attempted to provide a formerly silent Muse with voice and presence.

Catherine Perry. She has more to say on her brief website on de Noailles :. Her work is best described as Dionysian—ecstatic, sensual, erotic, playful, sometimes violent, and always marked by a tragic undercurrent which becomes more apparent in her later poetry. I did a little poking around and found this excellent bibliography: Gender and Genre. My god! Textualizing the feminine. On the limits of genre. University of Okla. The poets are textualizing the feminine. The critics feminize in order to denigrate and marginalize. John was late, my neighbor had a complication, and so I had to stuff Milo into his raincoat, boots, whisk him off unwelcome and harried and late to the reading at the Main Street Gallery in the dimly awakening nightlife of Redwood City.

Instead of composing my mind to think of my poem or even having a moment to practice I was answering questions from him about the night, the city, the gallery, Main Street, What Is an Art Gallery. Then questions about him, some from well-meaning people, some NOT. Oh, the little disapprovals and snideries!

Is he going to be a Good Boy? You do understand that a child can be Distracting? I hope you can keep him Quiet. He knows not to touch anything, right? Rather than focus on the people I would like to talk to, I have to keep my mind focused on my son and his experience. Yes, people, I do understand that a child can be distracting. What do you think? By the way, he has double pneumonia. Thank god! The room was packed. Really the cream of the peninsula poets came to hear and be heard. Jayne Kos hosted the reading, and we kicked off with some tributes to Anatole Lubovich.

Kathy St. Bruce Jewett — who sometimes sends me poetry postcards and who used to publish small books and magazines in the.. I think the Fat Frog… talked about how Anatole was vibrant with verve but how they were oil and water. The lights went off. There were xmas lights, and EL wire in a long coiling tangle on the floor, and some zappy globes making you think of the beauty of neon in the rain. All cheesy and half-assed, but in a good way that gave us beauty and atmosphere… dislocation.

Arntson in his fez and pakistani-looking tunic thing. Salwar kameez? A little tinsel and vaudeville. Two radios, one with swing music and one with a crackly broadcast of the Day that will live in Infamy… Fellow Americans… Pearl Harbor.. Remarks from Arntson. You have to rememeber he recites it all from memory and he recited for probably 40 minutes nonstop.

An ode to saltines, clouds, ghosts, journeys, exhaustion physical and spiritual. His poems just keept going. This was one of the main head-opening lessons for me when I first started hearing Steve read at Waverley and San Jose Arts League at the minor street house. This little bit of the poem is not formatted properly. It should be rambling all over the page with a lot of white space, staggered and open-handed. Maybe I will come back later and try to do it correctly. That spacing out is okay. It takes practice to absorb and stay with a long poem.

But you are reeled back in by some strand coming back. The cracker comes back and combines with cloud, or the Paiutes with water and its lack and the ghost and your attention is caught. The point of the long poem is that it is not a painting; it is a journey and you not only end up somewhere, you have travelled somewhere. You can sit next to him in the car and enjoy the journey. Synaptic Mandala — which I give a sample of here: last bit of Synaptic Mandala: 1. He passed out free a CD with three poems on it.

Good quality recordings, but the music is intrusive and cheesy. How can this be? To the open mike. April, Palmer Pinney with a sort of holiday poem, a couple of other people read, but I was not fully there. I think because it sounds greek. But of course she is right! Bruce read a poem. Judith B. Lisa Ortiz read an astonishingly good poem about cookies, desire, and martinis.

I have written before that she is the ultimate celebrator of profundity in the suburban mundane, distilling it beautifully… dark in your bitter parts, bitter in your dark. The fierce YES of the crinkling insomniac cookie bag. More people should listen carefully to what she is doing.

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Robert H. I have trouble reading my own handwriting but I exploded into note taking with a lot of exclamation points and little stars on the page. A science-fiction poet and I expect to see more of her stuff out there… I wish I had a copy of this poem. Once at a readaround we took turns reading her poems in our varying reading styles. Because sometimes her delivery style blinds you a little. But the poems can be VERY different read aloud by someone else. It was instructive. It was also cool to hear her do one of my poems HER way. Christine Holland — a poem about a painting of native americans — history — painting — colonialism — solid.

I started thinking of John McPhee. She is the John McPhee of poetry? She paints and extends vision. Charlotte talked about Anatole, a heartfelt cascade of feelings about how he was quite amazing, cosmopolitan, cultured, bizarre and fantastic, somewhat unappreciated because he was difficult and prickly as well. What does it mean? Anatole at his best when formal and technical and exquisitely clever.

I like his sonnets. As if we are limited by time! Bah humbug! Steve Arntson stood up again to recite from almost-memory a sonnet of Substance by Anatole. I could have typed fast enough to capture most of it, but was not quick on the draw with the laptop. Arntston passed out a packet of poems, some typed, some xeroxed from his manuscripts. This made me so happy!

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I begged him and begged him to do it! And he did, huzzah!

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I want everyone to appreciate his genius. I always take brief notes and looking back on them can rememeber and reconstruct most of an evening. So instead… you get this. As I drove home I was stuck with the thought of how much I love judging and discernment. This is a good one! And of course comparing them to each other.

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Unfortunately… around the poetry-reading time of night, I am usually in some sort of fairly intense physical pain. The only way to deal with that is to think as hard as possible, for distraction. Judgement is also a defense mechanism against boredom. Value IS relative in many ways. I have to dislocate the center of my judgement in order to get to the place where I can understand that relativity and see poetry newly. Yet… some writing still sucks and is dull. To me. For my purposes. At this particular moment. Oh, I could argue all day about this!

I can stop being Elitist McSnootypants for a brief moment, but then it kicks right back in afterwards. When something is good…I am SO happy, relieved, excited, and inspired. Like I said, I will check in tomorrow and write up the reading by Arntson and others. From last Friday. Willy Kit — her first time reading here. We all applaud and give her The Love. Karen Grosman Brucey Slama — poem about the Holocaust. She experiments quite hardworkingly with form and subject material and I always think she is on the edge of finding a solid voice.

Sometimes she catches the bus and sometimes not. More and more often, yes. Lu Pettus — grandchild in front of the mirror. Or, dips in and out of blank verse. Lu usually writes long narrative fantasy poems that seem to be set in some kind of consistent mythical world of her own invention. This mirror poem is a departure from that and it is quite good. Rob N. Tom Digby — Christmas on Terra. They are vignettes and explorations of a wacky idea — in a way that entertains.

Therefore they ARE good.

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Which was in Composite 2. I think last year Sharon joined the Sixteen Rivers collective. Her work is meditative, page-poety, naturey. I think there are people who have been poeting and workshoping together for 20 years and I never understand those nuances. Anyway — Sharon also is a founder and organizer for the Art21 reading series.

Marie Solis — a sonnet. Yay, lunch money. I put some right back into Jackie M. Steve Arntson — Portal of Bones poem. I prompt. I love this poem. He left out a lot of bits. I could feel its layered rush. It is weird and nonlinear. I kind of garbled it. Oh well. I should. I have only known her for 4 years. Oh hell. She read 2 poems. Prophecies and healings. They come at you sideways. Kathy Abelson — family poem. Actually, this is another very typical thread of what I think of as typical Waverley poems. Exploration of memoir and family memories, especially connections with the dead and time.

Jean has a very strong particular individual voice, quiet and definite. She works in an orchid greenhouse, I think.

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Or used to. They had better all read next time or there will be hell to pay. Oh yeah I have one more slightly catty thing to say. Remember that now. Leaving out pronouns is just as bad. Go read some super tight good poetry and diagram its sentences? Or its lack of sentences? Rewrite two of your lines 10 different ways? Maybe take that good poem and mess it up by rewriting two of its lines to be as bad as possible? I should come up with an exercise for it.