new Lanthanum.

More Lanthanum.

Surprised to learn over the weekend (from local paper) that the John Hay Library, across the street from my place of work, houses (in a secure vault) Walt Whitman's personal copy of Leaves of Grass. (& that's a bust of Dante, outside the building, on the left.)



Seems lately I'm travelin' along with my own daily leaf-grass kind of thing (Lanthanum). Or maybe more like tree rings. Lanthanum gradually extending as a calendar-line through cyberspace.

New Lanthanum. (Also slight changes to last stanza of #14.)

Come in Lanthanum...

(the element "lanthanum", atomic #57, is hexagonal in shape)

Latest Lanthanum.

I'm Play-doughing my own micro-idiolect here... a risky thing.
Easy to pooh-pooh, if you're a poo-poo-er.

Plenty to find fault. Few to enjoy. Fewer to understand. That's the risk. Fewest to care a whit.

I/you have to struggle with/against the incoherent, incomprehensible sing-song.
If it's going to mean anything, in this world of poor mutes.

But nobody plays the guitar like me.

S'more Lanthanum.

Lanthanum enters March.

Latest Lanthanum.

Tomfoolery for Lent over at Lanthanum.

Mardi Lanthanum.

some new Lanthanum.

Something new in Lanthanum. I wonder if anybody will get it...

I'm setting my face like flint and writing everything possible against the messages in this month's Poetry Magazine... from one end of cute & flavorful lyrics (they are pretty good, actually, for the most part) to the other end of stylish anti-manifestos... What the heck, they've rejected my poems 3 times in the last 6 months - my poems, which are pure plumbline(!!!)

Funny Valentine stuff over at Lanthanum.

& so begins Lanthanum, book 2.

Some new Lanthanum.

New Lanthanum today.

Also some new memoranda over at The Plumbline School.

Hello Lanthanum.

Additional Lanthanum.

Political footballs : Putin, Vienna, Russian poetry, Superbowl Sunday, murder

I had trouble sleeping last night, thinking about whether anyone over in Russia would notice this poem or understand what I'm doing here. Not many Americans will understand what I'm doing here (you'd have to be something of an Acmeist, I guess).

(Also, it was written on the night of Superbowl Sunday (I skipped the game). Which connects it, in a distant way, with Brodsky.)