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Salutations, Writer-folk & Lurkers! Writch's Coven's first exercise was a huge success! Well, at least to ourselves - and that's all who matter there. So we blaze & blunder forth with Assignment #2. Go check it out if you're so inclined. Peace,Writch (a.k.a. Rich)

The Final Round By R. Christopher This is the final round of a major chess tournament. A tournament Pyper should not have been in. The players, three of those in the world’s top ten, the rest all Grandmasters in the top fifty, and her. She is playing because her teacher, who was invited, fell ill the day before the event was to start. He successfully argued for her to take his place. Boris Milov had taught her well. Unexpectedly she was in a three way tie for first place, and all the tie breaks went her way. Grandmasters Long and her opponent Voss were her co-leaders. A win would give her the tournament title and more money than she had seen in sixteen years. A draw and she would finish second if Long won. Lose and she would finish third. A great result for an unknown player. Before the tournament she would have been ecstatic to finish so high, but now she wanted it all. Pyper liked to arrive early. Using the time to focus herself for the upcoming fight. She settled into the comfortable chair. It would be her last chance to relax until the game was over. Each player was allowed two hours for their first forty moves, then an hour for the rest of the game. She listened to the crowd entering the theater, and watched the engineers doing their last minute checks on the large video displays. One display was over each of the five tables on the stage. The activity around her helped to calm her. On the table before her sat a beautiful chess set. The pieces carved out of rich woods and exquisitely finished. The set pleased her aesthetically. Chess sets always had, from the first time. d When she was six years old Pyper saw her first chess set. Two old men were playing at the local park. The tall wood pieces mesmerized her. The man said hello as she sat on the concrete picnic table where they were playing. Pyper replied with a shy smile. For two hours she watched. The pieces were so beautiful, especially compared to the gaudily colored plastic and cardboard games she owned. This is an adult game. These were grown-ups playing. Pyper had never seen adults playing a game, except when her parents played on of her games with her. This was different. “Do you want to play one?” The older of the two men asked. A quick shake of her head sent her new copper penny colored hair flying. “Do you know how to play?” He continued. The bright hair flew again. “Would you like to learn? This time the head changed directions and nodded. This was accompanied be a soft, “Please.” Pyper learned the game was called chess, that her favorite piece, the horsey-head, was called a knight. She learned how all the pieces moved. She heard her mother calling her home. “We’ll be here next weekend.” The man said. It was the longest week in her life. Eventually the weekend came. It was followed by many more weekends spent learning the game. d The public address system blared jarring her from her memories. She saw most of the other players at their seats. The announcer was introducing the players. Her opponent always the showman, waited until the announcer reached his introduction. He strode onstage, smiling and waving to the audience. “Grandmaster Max Voss. The Wizard. Former World Champion. He held the title for fifteen years. Lost it to Alexi Turosov twenty years ago. Last year he was one of the three people to win a game from the current World Champion.” The announcer droned on. Stylish and distinguished, he has been the face of chess for more than forty years. His wit and ability to explain chess to the layman has kept him popular on the talk show circuit. He also was something of a surprise leader in this event. At sixty-seven he was well past his prime. He could win a game against anybody, but a three week competition taxed his endurance. The announcer did not mention that the win over the World Champion was his only win in that competition. This year he looked healthier, He had lost some weight. He did not look tired, he looked eager. He shook her hand as he sat down. While the announcer was winding down he said softly, “You have played some exciting chess. Your win over Karloff was as nice a game as I’ve seen in years.” “Thank you.” Was all Pyper could say. “We have played before, I think. I recognize the style.” Voss said. This startled her. She remembered the game vividly, but had not expected him to. “How can you remember that?” Pyper exclaimed. Voss smiled warmly and said, “I remember interesting games and their players.” Indeed he was famous for being only able to remember people if they had a chess game appended to their names. His encyclopedic memory did not extend past chess. d Ten year old Pyper sat behind on of fifty boards arranged on a horseshoe of tables. Max Voss circling in the center. Making a move at each of the boards as he passed. During the game Pyper was in the zone. Focused, seeing the possibilities better than she ever had. It was a tremendous game. After two hours hers was the only game not completed. Bill Evans, a master and her teacher, managed a draw. Everybody else lost. With no one else to play he could concentrate fully on her game. With every move he increased the pressure on her defenses. Then he surprised her, “How about a draw?” He said smiling in a kind grandfatherly way. Pyper looked at the position on the board. She knew she was losing, but did not know how he would break through her defenses. She wanted to know. She did not want to lose that feeling of being in the zone. “Not yet, please.” She begged. Voss laughed and moved one of his pawns. Pyper felt a hand on her shoulder. It squeezed softly. Her father’s warm voice said in her ear, “Mr. Voss wants to go and eat. Take the draw.” Then to the grandmaster, I hope you’ll allow us to take you to dinner?” “Yes. Yes, I’d like that. Thank you.” Their eyes turned to Pyper waiting. She extended her hand and said, “Draw. Could you show me how you were going to win?” Laughing Voss then made the pieces dance. Rapidly moving the pieces around the board. Every few moves accompanied by a “See” or an “And then.” Pyper watched dazzled. d “Lady and gentlemen you may begin.” Concluded the announcer. Pyper slid her king’s pawn up two squares and tapped the clock. The game had started. Voss advanced his queen bishop’s pawn. The Sicilian Defense. It was a favorite of his, so this came as no surprise to her. Their moves followed mainline theory. Neither player gaining any advantage. Then unexpectedly Voss shifted into the Dragon Variation of the Sicilian Defense. She had not prepared for that she did not remember him ever playing that variation before. She knew the lines because she played that variation occasionally herself. The complexity of the position increased. Voss played his knight to the center of the board. He set the piece down with a screwing motion. In effect saying, this piece is here and you cannot move it! This was a lesser known line, extremely dangerous and double-edged. Pyper countered with a move that could send them back into the main line. With a bang Voss put a pawn down supporting the knight. He was not going to allow her to steer the game back. For a game where you could not talk Voss’ every move spoke volumes. A banged piece said, be scared of this move it is powerful. Moved caressingly said, I like this move. The game went on with Voss dictating most of the play. She kept looking for ways to trade off pieces. Get to the endgame as fast as possible. Skip the middle-game entirely if possible. Pyper was not used to playing that way. She was not seeing the moves like she wanted and needed to. Her pre-game plan was going wrong. She could not make it happen. In truth it was not really her plan. d When Pyper visited Milov the night before he said, “Voss is called The Wizard for a reason. He can make an attack appear out of thin air. Pyper knew this. Since that game she played against him six years before he had been her hero. She had played over every one of his published games. She had read all the books he wrote. In many ways she patterned her game after his. Her natural tendencies ran that way anyway. Milov continued his lecture, “Turosov showed how to beat him in their match. Go straight to the endgame. Sometimes Voss’ll push too hard to win. He’ll open himself up to a counter-attack, or he’ll sacrifice a piece unwisely. “You play a lot like he does. Steering for complications. Sharp tactical chess, full double-edged moves. Always attacking. High risks, if you don’t win you lose. Remember, a draw gives you a lock on second place. It will most likely win as Long will go for a quick draw. But first and second advance to the next stage in picking a challenger for the World Championship. So with a draw you win, maybe not the tournament but the important prize.” Pyper said how strange it was to play the way Milov advocated after they went over a few games. “It may seem strange, but it is your best chance. Voss has mellowed out a bit in his old age, but the tiger still has sharp teeth. You saw what he did to Harding two rounds ago. Vintage Voss, an eighteen move crush of a top ten player. He’s playing better than ha has in tears. Hell even off form he took out the World Champion in a twenty-five move slaughter. If you play a sharp tactical game against him he’ll crush you too. You’re good, very good, but he’s probably the best ever. Play like Turosov. Let him beat himself or give you the draw.” She and Milov worked on lines of play until the nurses kicked her out. d Voss put his rook behind the missing center pawn with a thump. His moves and body language shouted. Shouted that she would not win, could not win. Pyper looked up to his watery blue eyes. They spoke the same message. There was no trace of the kindly grandfather in them. The man in front of her was serious—deadly serious. She knew she was seeing The Wizard conjuring her defeat. Now she understood why the World Champion said that Voss had hypnotized him. There was no way to trade any pieces. She had never felt like this before. Always she had been the tiger, now she was the rabbit trying to dodge the claws. Milov had told her being worse is not lost, but how much worse could she get before she did lose? She had no experience playing against a relentless attack. She glanced at the clock. The seconds ticked off. Her stomach was knotted with tension. At least she had experience with that. She made her move, an offer to trade off a couple of pieces, and then walked backstage. There were snacks and drinks laid out for the players She grabbed a soda and a doughnut. Stretching to relieve tense muscles, helped the body, but it was her mind that was rattled. She had to focus, had to be calm. She finished the soda and threw half of the doughnut in the trash. Grabbing another soda she walked back onstage. Pyper looked at Long’s game Milov was correct he was going for a quick draw. It looked like his opponent was happy with a draw as well. Voss was out to win and in very good position to get one. She returned to her board. Voss as she expected had declined to trade any pieces. Her attention kept returning to a pawn move. A pawn move that would increase the tension. The exact opposite of what her teacher instructed her to do. ‘She could force the exchange of bishops. Voss would gain a little positional in the swap. Milov said, worse is not losing. What to play, the simplifying exchange, or the sharper pawn move? Would Milov be angry if she pushed the pawn and lost? Yeah, he would. Would he still teach her?’ She thought. She had learned a lot in the tear and a half she studied with him. ‘If she did not do as he instructed and lost… Results were important to him. d Her father had different priorities. “Always do your best. Whether the task is important or not.” He drummed into her. “Then win, lose, or draw you will have your self-respect and usually the respect of others.” When Pyper was thirteen, she and her chess instructor asked her father to allow her to play in a tournament. “I hate competition, especially for kids. Chess is inherently competitice, it doesn’t need adults adding to it with organized events. Tournaments place too much emphasis on winning. I want Pyper to grow up a little before she has to deal with that pressure. Her father supported her chess playing. He brought her the best computer programs, books, and magazines. Paid for lessons with masters and finally a grandmaster, but no tournaments instill she was fifteen. d Pyper sat up and pushed the pawn authoritively. She knew how to make moves talk too. She was not as eloquent as Voss, but she could and would assert herself. The pawn move might not be the best move, but it was her best. She would play the kind of chess she loved. The following few moves increased the complexity. There were so many things going on. All the pieces were engaged. Multiple threats. Attack and counter-attack—balanced. Nervous tension filled her. The knots in her stomach tied themselves into knots. Her mouth was a desert. Again she went backstage, stretching knotted muscles as she walked. A soda and some deep breaths helped some. She tried another doughnut. She could barely swallow the bite she took. Her stomach would not allow it. ‘Why couldn’t I have played the simple swap-down game like Milov told her?’ Pyper agonized. The thoughts and doubts continued, ‘Stay away from the middle-game, he said. Nooo! I couldn’t follow good advice from someone who knows what to do. Not me! No ducking into an endgame now.’ She took a few more deep breaths to dispel those energy robbing and useless thoughts. Pyper looked onstage at Voss. He looked so calm. She wondered how many years it would take for her to be so relaxed in pressure situations. Throwing the barely touched doughnut in the trash she returned to her seat. Pyper would have been amazed to learn that her two uneaten doughnuts kept company with Voss’ half-eaten bran muffin. Equally surprising, if she knew was his wondering how a young girl could be so composed. The middle-game is where each player searches for a way to break through the others defenses. Probe for, or tempt a weakness in the opponent’s position. Voss sat forward in his chair. Tension filled his body for the first time. ‘He sees something.’ Thought Pyper. “What is it?’ She went hunting. Voss was in a long think. He was chasing down variations, and testing the moves that would ensue. She could not waste valuable time waiting for him to make the move. Whispers from the crowd grew in volume as his ponderings approached twenty minutes, then erupted as Voss captured her knight with his rook, inviting recapture by one of her pawns. The quiet please signs glowed out their message. Pyper had figured that was the move he was planning. She had seen this possibility moves earlier. She did not think that he would get enough compensation for the sacrifice. That he made the move indicated that he thought differently. Her options seemed clear on the surface. Do not capture the rook and be down a piece. That did not sound appealing. Take the rook and have a compromised pawn structure, but be up material. ‘Where’s the trap? What does he see? I must be overlooking something.’ The questions chased each other. Voss had spent more than twenty minutes examining this move. He went searching and found something. Now she had to find out what that was. Pyper settled into her chair. It was time for a long think of her own. After all one long think deserved another. That was one of the things she learned at her first tournament. At that tournament Pyper won some games and lost some. She learned things and found a teacher. It was a weekend she would never forget. d The state chess championship was three weeks before her fifteenth birthday. Pyper’s father allowed her to participate. Mark Hordon, her teacher, worked on preparing her for the event. Her first game was with a strong master. Nerves and the unfamiliar atmosphere helped contribute to her losing. Each player was allowed ninety minutes to complete the game. Pyper played fast. She always did. Her opponent used nearly eighty minutes. Pyper used barely twenty-five. After the game Pyper played blitz chess in the skittles room. The next round would be played that afternoon. Mark walked in. “How’d you do? Pyper asked him. “Draw.” “I lost.” Pyper said dejectedly. “It happens. I watched some of your game. You sure played fast. Bet you used less than half an hour.” Mark saw in her eyes that he had guessed correctly. Then continued, “One time he must have used fifteen minutes on a move. You made yours in less than two.” “I figured out what to play on his time.” Pyper interrupted. Mark responded, “So he took ninety minutes to find a win. You used thirty to lose.” He smiled and tousled her hair to take some of the sting out of the words. Then continued, “If you took twice the time you did could you have found a win.” Her face reddened. Hurt and chagrin filled her. “Sorry.” She said softly. “Nothing to be sorry about. You just learned a lesson. The same lesson everyone learns. The same way everyone learns it, by losing. This is a new experience. Just remember, if someone spends a lot of time on a move they may have found something. So if you have the time use it.” It was lesson Pyper remembered. d The crowd grew loud enough to light the quiet please sign again. Lost in the game, Pyper did not notice. Lines of possibilities. Pieces attacking or supporting other pieces in a precarious balance of offense and defense. Pyper had to find a way to weave those lines to her advantage. Two of the other games ended. The player paused and examined her game as they walked offstage. She had an idea. She needed to work out how it could be implemented. Glancing at the clock, she was surprised at how much time had wound off. Only nineteen minutes remained. She stood in hopes that a change of perspective would help. Nothing. She knew what she wanted to do, now find a way for it to be done. Then as she was sitting she saw how. She paused half way to her seat. Fixing the move in her mind she finished sitting. Everyone in the building knew she saw something. Voss leaned forward eyes scanning a board already fixed in his mind. The audience grew loud. When they did not respond to the signs the public address system whispered, “Quiet please.” Five more minutes spent checking. Her dark green eyes stared with laser intensity. Small quick movements followed the pieces to a future position. That position rejected, and then trail them to another. Each move of those pieces checked and evaluated. She could find no holes in her analysis. Pyper reached out. Her hand hovered over the knight. One more fast check. Then she lifted the piece and set it softly on its new square. The hushed murmur of the crowd grew to the point of hearing then sank down again. A look of surprise crossed Voss’ face. Clearly he had not expected her move. The watery blue eyes returned to the board after a momentary glance at the clock. His head sank into his hands. He could take the knight two ways. If he did Pyper would have time to capture his rook and protect her weakened pawns. Voss would have a slight advantage, but the rest of the game would be trench warfare. That was not the type of play he favored. She hoped he would retreat his endangered rook. Pyper’s plan hinged on a pawn sacrifice. That move was six moves in the future. To avoid it Voss had to see it now. If he did he would snatch the knight. Though he did not like trench warfare did not mean he could not play that type of game. Looking out at the audience she saw her father on the front row. Surprisingly he was talking with Milov ‘How did he get out of the hospital’ Pyper wondered. It was not the first time he had surprised her. That was at that memorable first tournament. d Pyper took Mark’s advice and slowed down. She managed to win her next two games and draw the fourth. For the fifth game she was paired to play grandmaster Boris Milov. She was very nervous. Mark had helped with some ideas about how to play against him. Pyper decided to arrive at her board early and focus on the game. This would become a habit. Just before the game was to start Milov sat down opposite her. “I’ve been watching you. You play well.” Milov said. Just as she thanked him the tournament director called for them to begin. Milov slid on a pair of mirrored sunglasses. Then he nonchalantly moved his queen’s pawn. His style of play was like nobody she had ever played. He played defensively, preventing every attacking move she made. Slowly he increased the space he controlled. Gaining space square by square. The movement of her pieces was becoming more and more restricted. It was like playing a boa constrictor. He sat there so casual and relaxed. The board’s distorted reflection looking back at her when she looked up into Milov’s sunglasses. She had to find a way to break through and get some room for her pieces. She went into her first long think. It would be expensive. She would have to give up a rook for only two pawns. That would but her some breathing room. Pyper picked up the first of the pawns and replaced it with her rook. This seemed to startle Milov. He sat back, adjusted his sunglasses then captured her sacrificial rook. Pyper snapped up the second pawn with her knight. The knight attacked his queen, so he had to give way. For the next ten moves she found one way or another to keep him off balance. Milov kept ducking and dodging. He pulled most of his forces back to stave off Pyper's desperate attack. She knew that if her attack failed she was dead. Milov found one defensive resource after another. Pyper sacrificed another pawn when her attack started to slow. Then her attack died. There was no way to keep it going, no more pieces to burn to keep the heat on. It was over. She tipped over her king and reached out to congratulate him on his victory. Milov shook her hand. Smiling he asked her if she would like to come to him for further instruction. Once in the skittles room Pyper quickly called her father and handed the phone to Milov. d The rook retreated putting pressure on her knight Pyper slammed a bishop where it could support the knight. Voss instantly countered by sliding his other rook behind the just retreated one, now both rooks were working together, and aimed straight at her king. The moves were relatively forced. After their long contemplations of the last few moves both players had worked out the variations. Bang. Bang the moves came rapid fire. When Pyper pushed the pawn in front of her king a few moves later Voss paused. After stealing a glance at the clock Voss spent three of his precious few minutes calculating. His rooks would penetrate her king’s protection. Each move a check. Every check a move closer to mate. Voss snapped up the pawn. His rook gave check. Her king ran from the checking rook. The rook stepped forward one square. Check. Her king dodged once more, running up the board. The other rook joined in the hunt. Check. The harried monarch ducked into a cluster of pawns. Temporary security. Voss only had to reposition his queen, and then it would join the rooks. With the queen’s help, mate would come quickly. It was all over now. Voss nudged his queen over a square. This move did not give check. Pyper now had the free move that she spent so much to get. That long ago knight move had another, deeper purpose it opened a line for her queen. When Voss moved his queen to mate her he unprotected a square. That line and that square were crucial to her plan. No longer a helpless bystander her queen could strike a blow. Her queen slashed along that opened line. It captured the pawn in front of her adversary’s king. Check. The audience roared. The queen was unprotected. Voss could just reach out and capture it with his king. Voss looked up at her, then smiled, “Wonderful! A great game. I hope we will play again.” He said extending his hand. Pyper shook his hand saying, “Thank you I would like that.” She looked out over the confused audience. They were only beginning to understand what happened. She saw Milov explaining it to her father. She watched his finger see-saw as he pointed at the video display board. Again she looked at the beautiful pieces. In her head she moved them. Voss takes her sacrificial queen. Then her brave knight charges giving check. The king retreats to the only available square. The safety he is seeking is not to be found there. The knight dances away. The prancing knight uncovers the bishop discovering check. The king must move. The only square available to him is the one that he had just vacated. The knight rushes back to check the embattled monarch, and the scene is repeated. Pyper whispered one word, “draw!”

http://www.laphamsquarterly.org/issue_article_b.php?id=542

Written twenty minutes ago in my front yard. The fallen leaf stirs listlesslyWayward as the windGently lifts it along;The birds with wailing criesAttest their love in song.Beneath my weary feetGreen fingers reach for sunlightThat peers through swaying trees;Shaded ever and anonBy a mountain on the breeze.

Here are some places I workshop my poetry regularly. You guys might want to try them out: The Critical Poet. For poets of all levels, from just starting writing to publishing regularly: http://www.criticalpoet.com/ The Gazebo. For more advanced levels, typically publishing regularly. Here is their temporary site while the old site is being repaired: http://thegazeboinexile.iforums.us/ The Sonnet Board. For poets of moderate to advanced levels, typically publishing regularly, but open to writers new to the sonnet form: http://thesonnetboard.yuku.com/ The Eratosphere. Almost exclusively for poets who work in meter and rhyme. Most members are active in the field, publishing regularly: http://www.ablemuse.com/erato/ Which workshops do you use?

there lies something within the gap between my senses and my memories strange things exist where only microprocessors function - independently, autonomously needing no report, from the mothership, from the underlings somewhere withing that space belies single-celled freedom from everything but harrowing struggles of life occur from body to organ to nerve cell discourse it seethes and fights and bleeds and dies of it's own consent and of it's own consorts grating a space into my sublime mind-body connection rejecting the order of the insurmountably huge homo-sapien conjecture so i have to wonder day to day just what my person is thinking it seems unrelated to all my hopes, dreams, and lifelong tinkerings could truly a single cell and its DNA propose the meaning of I? i do not know, but think i'll find out 15 minutes after i die

ART SPIEGELMAN WANTS A BLOOD TEST The acclaimed comic artist was once banned from Robert Crumb’s house, loves chicken fat and hates the term “graphic novel”. He also takes very little pleasure from drawing, writes Gary Moskowitz ...Special to MORE INTELLIGENT LIFESipping from a glass of white wine and secretly itching for a cigarette (he later admitted), Art Spiegelman glibly entertained a gaggle of British adult comic-book fans. We were all in a small theatre at London's Institute for Contemporary Arts, where Spiegelman explained his rationale for what is perhaps one of his most shocking drawings from the 1970s: a decapitated man getting fucked in the neck.“I did the most vile comics I could possibly think of, because I thought that’s what underground comics were all about,” he said with an unapologetic shrug. He then admitted that Robert Crumb, a comic artist renowned for testing the limits of taste in his own drawings, banned him from his house in San Francisco in the 1960s. His wife was just too disturbed by that particular image. The drawing appears in Spiegelman’s most recent effort, a new edition of "Breakdowns: A Portrait of the Artist as Young %@&*!", created first in 1978. This book, said Spiegelman, should lend some insight into his evolution from vile cartoonist to Pulitzer Prize-winning artist and illustrator. The Pulitzer came in 1992 for "Maus", a personal story about the Holocaust in which Jews were depicted as mice and Nazi Germans as cats. Though canonised now as an important unconventional memoir, "Maus" was originally met in 1978 with “a stunning silence”, Spiegelman said. His goal for the project, first drawn with a fountain pen, was to make readers feel like they were reading a diary.“Breakdowns” offers a trek through Spiegelman’s early work and development as a comic artist, revealing what he grappled with before "Maus". At the lecture, Spiegelman presented slides from the book--rough, silly, strange and sometimes simple images that exemplified his mantra: “comics should be whatever you want them to be.”For "Maus" fans who know little of Spiegelman’s earlier work, “Breakdowns” may seem surprising--a rowdy departure from the sombre narratives and intense self-scrutiny that followed. Yet it captures the visceral energy of underground comics in the 1960s and '70s, a time when a growing group of adults used the medium to grapple with complicated and often raunchy subjects. Next year McSweeney's will release “Be a Nose!”, a "warts-and-all" reproduction of Spiegelman's private sketchbooks.Spiegelman made Time magazine’s list of 100 most influential people in 2005, but his route to fame has indulged some detours, such as creating Garbage Pail Kids for Topps Bubble Gum and some time in a psychiatric hospital in upstate New York in the late 1960s. He designed covers for the New Yorker for years (Françoise Mouly, his wife, as the art editor), including a post-9/11 image of the Twin Towers. But he walked away from the hallowed gig that same year because, as he briefly mentioned to this audience, he didn’t like how tepid mainstream media had become after the attacks. He ended up putting out his own book on 9/11, called “In the Shadow of No Towers", and he shared with us the story of how he ran toward the towers after the first plane hit, to get to his daughter, who was attending school nearby. Spiegelman is not without his share of ticks. He admitted that he hates collaborating with other artists, he talks out loud while he works and he takes very little pleasure in drawing. “I don’t have the natural skills or patience to draw well,” he said. “I take no pleasure in drawing a tree just for a tree’s sake. I only draw a tree when I absolutely need a tree.”Speaking quickly and enthusiastically, Spiegelman treated the comments from the evening's presenter (Posy Simmonds, a British comic artist) as if they were irritating speed bumps. He was keen to explain his undying love for comic art. Specifically, for the ways in which it allows an artist to communicate directly, no matter how bizarre the message.“I like the ‘chicken fat’, the stuff that makes you go back and read it over and over and over, because there’s something sinister under the surface. The stuff with an urgency to it”, he said. He talked at length about the gripping illustrations of Mad, a popular satirical magazine. He then showed comic strips of a Jack-in-the-Box that suddenly jumps out of the box and starts talking to children and adults around him. It’s funny, but also creepy, because the toy has busted out of his confines and nobody is quite sure what he’s going to do next. Spiegelman is a comic artist’s comic artist, if there is such a thing. He grew up reading stacks of comics that his father found, salvaged from comic-book burnings in America after the second world war. The books were burned after Senate subcommittee hearings on juvenile delinquency and crime. Comics were often considered dangerous after Dr Fredric Wertham, author of the influential book "Seduction of the Innocent", proposed that comic books were directly linked to juvenile crime in the 1950s (something David Hajdu writes about at length in "The Ten-Cent Plague", which came out earlier this year). Spiegelman has taught classes on the history and aesthetics of comics. He hates the word “graphic novel” because he claimed it's misleading. “I’m called the father of the modern graphic novel. If that’s true, I want a blood test,” he said. “’Graphic novel’ sounds more respectable, but I prefer ‘comics’ because it credits the medium. [‘Comics’] is a dumb word, but that’s what they are.”Breakdowns: Portrait of the Artist as a Young %@&*!, by Art Spiegelman, Pantheon BooksPicture credit: Nadja Spiegelman (top), Art Spiegelman(Gary Moskowitz is a journalist and musician, based in London. His last piece for More Intelligent Life was about witnessing America's election from London.)

Greetings, Folks: And by folks, I mean the official participant-members: CapCloud, csharpe, More_Ignorance, sunberry, and last - but not at all least - PVilla (EDIT: and now Sisyphus67 too). So first of all, let me welcome you all and thanks for your interest. Ultimately, this group is to help ourselves while helping others. So you can start by patting yourselves on the back for taking a bold step in the right direction. Secondly, I want to set the proper mood and expectations. I have but two points to touch: leadership & participation. On Leadership: I'm not "leading" this group - I'll just be the facilitator, coordinator. So that means, I'll keep the calendar, make the announcements, admin the threads, and "enforce" participation. That being said, then you'll wonder what do I mean by lead, and who will lead it? Quick answer: you all will. That is, we'll take turns, voluntarily or by vote (i.e. "peer-pressure") in choosing a theme or assignment. CapCloud has characteristically took the initiative and accidentally volunteered with his reply and suggestion assignment from the Pre-Commencement News post. I'll cover that, and kick-off the first assignment after one more formal note on informality. On Participation: To set expectations about just how loose and informal this group will be, they'll be no enforcement of keeping on-topic - just keeping active. That is, you don't have to do the theme, but you have to "bring something" to the table by the "due date" and you'll be expected to give feedback to any and all the other's contributions, whether they're on-topic or not. Fair enough? OK, then. Without further delay, here is Cap's assignment: CapCloud wrote: A successful exercise I gave my students: Write one paragraph describing your face...in third person... in 5 minutes. I then had them pass that paragraph to the person to the left of them to add another paragraph adding to the description. I propose we do that here. I will start and anyone is free to add paragraph #2. Start the clock, five minutes...go: There was nothing startling about his face. First glance barely worth a second. And yet, as I let my lazy eye drift again across his features, I caught a hint, an echo perhaps of extraordinary witness. In the infinite averageness of his expression, a spark of blue to his otherwise grey eyes, sharper than I had first noticed, the lines of his forehead like fossile footprints of events recorded ages ago in subtle strata, lines in perfect paralell but for one: one line crossed the rest from the bridge of his nose up and over the steppes of skin to crash in a fine, dark jungle of hair. Evidence of Adventure? The Mark of Mishap? What I lack in imagination, I compensate for in boldness: what story did that scar have to tell? I resolved myself to know it. Now, this is how I propose we'll pull this off: we'll post each of our responses in the order of the list above (Cap excluded, because he started). So, first me (Writch), then csharpe, then More_Ignorance, then sunberry, and lastly PVilla(EDIT: now Sisyphus67 is last). Each writer will have about 72 hours to post their paragraph after the person before them has posted. PLEASE, NO FEEDBACK on other's pieces YET - not until after PVilla (EDIT: now Sisyphus67 ) put up his. After we're all done, we can post responses. Suggestion:One post with the name of each contributor other than your own, and a line or two of your thoughts or recommendations for each writer; more extensive advise can be in a separate post, but be sure to address it to whom you're advising. There'll be no time limit for when your feedback is due, except we'll have a about a week after PVilla's (EDIT: now Sisyphus67's)contribution, then on to the next assignment. So within the next day, I'll post mine below. May your muse inspire!Writch (Rich)

I’ve heardit’s noisy in the north. Birds followand flock where thetruth does not. .. .. I’ve heard itshines in the south. Light thickensand clots where the liesdo not. .. .. Now does bellowthe sun. These dropsof amber lay heavy onthe tongue .. .. I know; I’ve tasted: .. .. Now you put your lovewhere your mouth is.

On the heels of a successful Women v men tourney, I'm hosting another, much larger one over at the We Chat Global group. This time, there are ratings tiers from the low end of <1000-1200 to the high of 2000+ ! Let me know by note if you want in as it's invitation only. NONE of the games have a normal start position, so there will be NO e4 to open :) Cap

Here are some references to chess in literature. Woody Allen, a chess player himself, wrote a humorous article on correspondence chess, called The Gossage-Vardebedian. Papers. It appeared in the New Yorker magazine in 1966. Poul Anderson wrote a science fiction article on chess called The Immortal Game, which appeared in Fantasy & Science Fiction in February, 1954. Isaac Asimov mentioned chess in Pebble in the Sky, published in 1950. The story mentions that chess has not changed except for the names of the pieces. Schwartz and Grew play a 50 game chess match. Grew mentioned other variations of chess. Samuel Beckett (1969 Nobel Prize in Literature winner) wrote a play called Endgame in 1957. It used chess as a controlling metaphor. In another book, Murphy, written in 1935, a male nurse plays chess in a mental hospital with one of his patients. Ronan Bennett wrote Zugzwang, a chess novel, written in 2007. It was written in weekly installments for the British Sunday newspaper The Observer. It centers around the 1914 St. Petersburg Chess International Tournament. The book opens with the murder of a newspaper editor names Gulko. Ambrose Bierce wrote a story surrounding chess called Moxon’s Master, published in 1893. Edgar Rice Burroughs wrote The Chessmen of Mars in 1922. Elias Canetti (1981 Nobel Prize in Literature winner) wrote Auto-da-Fe in 1935. The character Fischerling is a world class chess player. John Caris wrote the Reality Inspector in 1982 with a chess theme. Computer hacking occurs at the Federal Reserve Bank while a world championship chess match is the backdrop. Lewis Carrol wrote Through the Looking Glass in 1872 with a few chess references and the Red Queen. Alice sees chessmen moving on a big chess board. Arthur C. Clarke mentioned chess in his short story Quarantine, first published in Isaac Asimov’s Science Fiction Magazine, Spring 1977. Alexander Cockburn wrote Idle Passion: Chess and the Dance of Death in 1974. Bryce Courtenay wrote The Power of One in 1989, with references to chess. The doctor in the book is a chess player. Lord Dunsany wrote The Three Sailor’s Gambit, which was published in The Smart Set in 1916. T.S. Eliot (1948 Nobel Prize in Literature winner) wrote the Waste Land in 1922. One of the chapters (chapter 2) is called “A Game of Chess.” William Faulkner (1949 Nobel Prize in Literature winner) wrote a book called Knight’s Gambit, with six mystery stories, written in 1949. Ian Fleming mentions chess in Moonraker, published in 1955. He also has a chess scene in From Russia with Love, written in 1957. Antony Glyn wrote The Dragon Variation in 1969, which has a chess theme. William Golding (1983 Nobel Prize in Literature winner) wrote Lord of the Flies in 1954. One of the quotes from the novel is “The only trouble was that he would never be a very good chess player.” Robert Heinlein wrote The Rolling Stones in 1952. It was about a kid who played chess and could see what the other person was thinking. Hermann Hesse (1946 Nobel Prize in Literature winner) wrote Steppenwolf in 1929. One of the chapters is called “The Chess Player.” The novel mentions a gifted chess player. Frances Parkinson Keyes wrote The Chess Players in 1960, centered around Paul Morphy. Gabriel Garcia Marquez (1982 Nobel Prize in Literature winner) mentions chess in several of his works. In Love in the Time of Cholera, written in 1989, the doctor and his friend plays chess until his friend commits suicide. Paolo Maurensig wrote The Luneberg Variation in 1993, which has a chess theme. Vladimir Nabokov wrote The Defense (Zashchita Luzhina or Luzhin’s Defense) in 1930. In 1955, he wrote Lolita where the main character Humbert plays chess. Katherine Neville wrote The Eight in 1988 with a chess theme. It is about a computer expert searching for a chess set that belonged to Charlemagne. George Orwell has several references of chess and a Chess Committee in 1984. Arturo Perez-Reverte wrote The Flanders Panel, written in 2004, with a chess theme. Joanne K. Rowling mentions wizard chess in Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone, written in 2004. Fred Saberhagen wrote Pawn to Infinity in 1982 with a chess theme. William Shakespeare mentions chess in The Tempest. Henryk Sienkiewicz (1905 Nobel Prize in Literature winner) wrote about chess in several of his works such as The Knights of the Cross and With Fire and Sword. Isaac Singer (1978 Nobel Prize in Literature) had a chess prodigy character in his book Shadows of the Hudson, written in 1997. Grandmaster Andy Soltis wrote Los Voraces, 2019: A Chess Novel. Walter Tevis wrote The Queen’s Gambit in 1984. Kurt Vonnegut has a short story with a chess theme in the short story “All the King’s Horses,” from Welcome to the Monkey House, written in 1998. Charles Yaffe wrote Alekhine’s Anguish: A Novel of the Chess World in 1999. Stefan Zweig wrote The Royal Game in 1941. One of the passengers on a ship is the world chess champion. The other chess player is Dr. B, who beats the world champion. In the return match, the champion plays as slowly as possible, driving Dr.B. mad.

http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/acropolis/

http://moreintelligentlife.com/story/where-bailout-book-critics

Will This Crisis Produce a 'Gatsby'? The 1930s galvanized a generation of authors and filmmakers, recasting the American journey In the fall of 1933, Sherwood Anderson left his home in New York City and set out on a series of journeys that would take him across large sections of the American South and Midwest. He was engaged in a project shared by many of his fellow writers -- including James Agee, Edmund Wilson, John Dos Passos, and Louis Adamic -- all of whom responded to the Great Depression by traveling the nation's back roads and hinterlands hoping to discover how economic disaster had affected the common people. Like many of his peers, Anderson had anticipated anger and radicalism among the poor and unemployed. Instead, he discovered a people stunned by the collapse of their most cherished beliefs. "Puzzled America," the title of the book he composed out of his journeys, said it all. In particular, Anderson found the people he met to be imprisoned by what he called the "American theory of life" -- a celebration of personal ambition that now seemed cruelly inappropriate. "We Americans have all been taught from childhood," Anderson wrote, "that it is a sort of moral obligation for each of us to rise, to get up in the world." In the crisis of the Depression, however, that belief appeared absurd. The United States now confronted what Anderson called "a crisis of belief." View Full Image Everett Collection Robert Redford in the 1974 film "The Great Gatsby." As Anderson knew, the notion that the United States is a uniquely open society, where the talented and industrious always have the chance to better their lot, is a central element of American self-understanding. The notion has been a prominent feature of American culture since the days of Ben Franklin, and it remains a core feature of the national ethos to this day. Indeed, in recent months the election of Barack Obama has reminded Americans of the promise that in the United States opportunity can be open to all. The Great Depression, however, subjected even the strongest convictions to stark challenge, revealing cracks in the vision of social mobility that the recent prosperity of the nineteen-twenties had managed to obscure. In truth, the notion that the U.S. was an open and fluid society had always been nearly as much myth as reality -- even when, as was necessarily the case, it was assumed to apply to white men alone. But the myth had come to an especially paradoxical stage in its development in the years leading up to the crash. Never in American history had the vision of social mobility been more forcefully asserted than in the 1920s. And rarely had the image been so far out of keeping with reality. The Republican Party, which dominated national politics throughout the decade, extolled the twin virtues of economic competition and personal ambition, reminding Americans often that they lived, as Herbert Hoover remarked, in "a fluid classless society...unique in the world." That rhetoric was redoubled by a booming new advertising industry which promised that consumers might vault up the ladder of social status through carefully chosen purchases (often with consumer credit, a recent invention). And yet, the United States actually became less equal and less fluid in the 1920s, as the era's prosperity increasingly benefited the wealthiest. By the end of the decade, the top 1% of the population received nearly a quarter of the national income, an historic peak that would not be approached again until this past decade. Indeed, the term "social mobility" was coined in 1925 by the sociologist Pitrim Sorokin, who used the phrase to identify a phenomenon in apparent decline. "The wealthy class of the United States is becoming less and less open," Sorokin wrote, "and is tending to be transformed into a caste-like group." The conflict between the American myth of a classless society and the reality of the nation's deepening caste divisions was the irony at the core of some of the greatest literary works of the 1920s, including Theodore Dreiser's "An American Tragedy" and F. Scott Fitzgerald's "The Great Gatsby." But it was not until the Great Depression that the traditional vision of social mobility imploded. Traveling the country, Anderson and his fellow observers found a populace confused by a collapse they could not understand. Everywhere he turned, Anderson noted, he heard the same refrain, "I failed. I failed. It's my own fault." The documentary books that he and his contemporaries created provided a kind of counter-narrative to the conventional American story of personal freedom and individual ambition. These works featured a journey not upward toward wealth and progress, but back into the hinterlands of a confused and immobilized nation. That journey was echoed by a whole genre of "road" novels, written by angry young writers like Nelson Algren, who depicted an itinerant population of bottom dogs lurching from one disaster to the next. These novels answered the classic American vision of opportunity by imagining a nation of wanderers rapidly going nowhere. So, too, did the cycle of gangster films -- "Little Caesar," "Scarface," "Public Enemy" -- which reached the peak of their popularity in the early '30s. Depicting boldly ruthless young men whose quests for wealth and power were doomed to end in self-destruction, the gangster film cast personal ambition as a cruel delusion. Even the era's light-hearted "screwball comedies," such as "It Happened One Night" and "My Man Godfrey," were sometimes fables of downward mobility, where arrogant socialites were brought down a notch by their encounters with ordinary people. The road novels, documentary books and gangster films of the 1930s depicted the myth of social mobility as a bitter cheat. The era's screwball comedies viewed it merely as delightfully laughable. But all suggested that the Depression had left a core feature of American ideology in disarray, and thus emphasized the extent to which the traditional American language of personal ambition was open to redefinition. That opportunity would be seized on by a cohort of artists and intellectuals who took the crisis of the Depression as a chance to cast the idea of social mobility less as a framework for individual striving and more as an occasion for collective action. John Steinbeck's novel "The Grapes of Wrath" made the Joad family's flight from the dust bowl into an emblem of people coming together to remake their world. A similar image was implicit in the very title of Dorothea Lange and Paul Taylor's documentary book "An American Exodus." Even works of light entertainment like the massively popular "Gone With the Wind" or John Ford's landmark Western "Stagecoach" were in keeping with the prevailing message of the times. All these works told of epic journeys in which a group of people overcame destructive competition in their discovery of a common destiny. Each called for Americans to act collectively to remake a democratic society where opportunity would be open to all. In effect, such declarations helped lay the cultural groundwork for the New Deal, providing the ideological infrastructure for the new governmental institutions created during the '30s. It is not yet clear whether the current economic disaster will produce anything like the profound transformation that shook the U.S. during the Great Depression. Our own crises of belief are likely just beginning. If we are fortunate, however, we will have a generation of artists and intellectuals like those of the 1930s to help us imagine our way past confusion. Sean McCann, a professor of English at Wesleyan University, is the author of "A Pinnacle of Feeling: American Literature and Presidential Government."

You may have read about my new little writing group, Writch's Coven, from the News post. But all the activity will be here, on the Forums. Despite the occult sounding name, this sub-group isn't anything Wiccan or even nefarious. Although it is about "Writchcraft:" Writing With A Purpose. What I’m calling for is a gathering of writer-folk into a small group for practice. That is, those who want to improve their craft as well as help others improve theirs. So, yeah, I’m talking serious dedication: theme assignments, due dates, forced feedback, etc. That’s also the part that contributes to the name… it’s a short form of Covenant: an agreement, usually formal, between two or more persons to do or not do something specified.... (read more on the News post) We'll start our activity with half-a-dozen members or March 1st, whichever comes first. The Currently Covetted Covenented:(read Comments section below for their applications & acceptances) Writch CapCloud csharpe More_Ignorance sunberry PVilla

Today I began to write since only yesterday I learned my speech. Tomorrow I can then teach my self-word-world to the moments, movements and reasons for all of human judgments. associations shape reality:digging into the core feasting on the essence draining all all the guarded virtues, till I failfrom within and fall.My chants encircle like a crown the poetkeen lamentations of a golden king;Curses lay on bare-flesh, hirsute growth. And apprehension spirals outward bringingout long cries. Articulation creates civilization, a body of work floating. I see in the vague distance thatA shepherd and a dying flock Have gathered with banners unfurledRaging War. Who demand we us believe in something and call it Imagination. Man created God in his own imageGod created man as his own image: Flesh Baptized Immortalas Divinity is baptized as creation. Today I write To impose on the world a singular View so recycled and used that the reader Who finds these words may leave confusedI have heard impressions are absurdConsidering the reality of a situation thatMoves a mind to lay down in tones and colorsAnd shapes the internal feeling of extrapolating a world. I shall go to the sea, warn the stars that storms burn fires on the shores.I shall be still in my movement.

TO THE BESTEST EVER BROTHER IN THE WORLD MERRY CHRISTMAS My Dad & Dave My Daddy would look after me No matter what I did, It’s not like I was naughty I was just a normal kid. But accidents did happen When least expected too Me and Dave my bruver That my daddy never knew, He never knew I nicked fings He never saw me smoke He never ever hit me He weren’t that sort of bloke, No one saw my bruver Set light to tiger hill No one saw us being chased, All over by the bill. No one heard Dave singing At Christmas carol time And when I got some money He’d say “Half of that is mine”. He would duck behind a motor “Ring the bell and sing” he’d shout! But he was nowhere to be seen When the family all came out. Dave wanted to play cricket But he had a paper round For he was very lucky As it passed right by the ground. One day the scores were level And the batsmen caught one clean Leave that to my brother But my brother was’int seen. For he was posting papers Without thought of what he’d done? And Bishops park eleven Were beaten by one run! Dad saw me playing football Only once I was in goal He shouted with my brother Go left to fill that hole. Try right Dave said the other way My confusion was complete The three of us then watched the ball Go Right between my feet! Dad put me in the army A cadet at only nine How stupid to recruit me But they would know in time! They sent me on maneuvers Taught me drill and to salute We were just like paratroopers But we had no parachute They gave me my own rifle And some bullets that it shoots A uniform and beret And a pair of hobnail boots I kept on losing badges And the beret on my head But when I lost my rifle A few harsh words were said I tried my hand at boxing But the trainer wasn’t pleased He told my bruv to punch me So he knocked me to my knees Now Dave and I are all grown up And Dad has passed away But we remember long ago Two brothers out at play! BILLY CURRIE. XX

She kept her blood still, and close to the heart. Leaving the skin silver shelled; moon gilt. My eyes would hold her as she’d spill into the air; the mist keeping her form; and each sequined shard of light that peeled from her breath, caught; In the weaves of our hair; the bends and cusps in white grass. The closer she got the greater the pour, and the more she would fragment. I held her there, until we were nothing. Until only line and loss were left; and two half’s of hearts in broken chests.

Hi. I posted the whole thing(instead of link) so people who have firewalls at work wont have to wait till they get home. rolef From the issue dated February 27, 2009 Poets' Puffery <script language="JavaScript1.1" src="http://ad.doubleclick.net/adj/opinion.che/;abr=!ie;abr=!aol;sz=250x250,300x250;ord=?"> </script> <noscript> <a href="http://ad.doubleclick.net/jump/opinion.che/;abr=!ie;abr=!aol;sz=250x250,300x250;ord=?"><img src="http://ad.doubleclick.net/ad/opinion.che/;abr=!ie;abr=!aol;sz=250x250,300x250;ord=?" width="300" height="250" border="0"></a> </noscript> Article tools By JEFFREY H. GRAY Europeans have often seen Americans as optimists and themselves as "realists." It is true that in the United States, the sense of exceptionalism — a term revived in the recent presidential campaign — seems to have driven hyperbole to new heights. In the academic sphere, grade inflation has been increasing since the late 1960s (at elite institutions more than elsewhere). Studentevaluation forms have as many as eight categories, the highest indicating "top 5 percent" and "top 1 percent" (also called "truly exceptional"). Certainly, no one gets into graduate school with "satisfactory," which, by the logic of inflation, has long been understood to mean "poor." (In fact, when the College Board "recentered" SAT scores in 1995, resulting in an average score increase of about 100 points, "poor" became "good," and "good" became "excellent.") And consider the American military, in which virtually every soldier is evaluated as "outstanding." Perhaps, in a culture of hyperbole, a certain value fatigue sets in, and one longs for deflation as a correction. For my part, over the past few years of editing a large reference work on American poetry, I've found an unexpected pleasure in the merely satisfactory. Of the hundreds of entries my associate editors and I received from scholars of American poetry of all periods, some of the most satisfying discussed pre-20th-century poets and included characterizations like the following: Nathaniel Evans (18th century) is "noted by most historians as a 'fledgling versifier' whose occasional verses were wholly 'unremarkable.'" Elizabeth Akers Allen (19th century) "was considered a minor Victorian poet even by her contemporaries." Her sentiments were "expressed competently, but with no attempt at innovation in style or content." William Byrd's (18th-century) "contribution to poetry is not at all significant." Indeed, "he published merely a few short, uninteresting poems." In our present-day culture of inflation, such humble assessments are appealing. Faint praise is sometimes appropriate. Charles Henry Phelps's "Love-Song" (1892), a political overture to Canada, makes a poor bid for immortality: Why should we longer thus be vexed? Consent, coy one, to be annexed. But even William Cullen Bryant, surely a bright star of 19th-century poetry — the prodigy who, at 17, wrote "Thanatopsis" — is treated with disdain: "By the end of the 20th century, most critics pronounced him 'minor' when they took note of him at all." My own favorite entry, on Gertrude Bloede (19th century), sums up a poet's bad dream of posterity: "Interest in her work, always limited, declined after her death." Curiously, it is almost impossible to find such modest assessments when one turns to contemporary poetry. Indeed, the problem of neglect or insignificance evaporates in a situation in which, in spite of the vast numbers writing (800 to 1,000 books of poetry are published in the United States per year; thousands of other poets publish in journals and quarterlies), we have no minor poets. Everyone today, like those above-average children of Lake Wobegon, is brilliant and sui generis. William Bronk's poetry, for example, "holds a unique place in the history of American letters." Kay Ryan "is one of the most original voices in contemporary American poetry." Who would dare to call the work of any of our thousands of confessional poets "overly sentimental and unevenly crafted," as was said of poor Lucy Larcom (1824-93), who published some 20 books and who, as regards technique, was pretty crafty by today's standards? Most poets today are magnificently oppressed, lashing out fearlessly against the "mainstream," which consists of everyone except the poet in question. Their biographies make them seem to jockey for the best of both worlds: Gerald Locklin (1941-), for example, is "an outlaw, underground poet, and college professor who has published more than 100 books of poetry and prose." How underground can he be? Indeed, marginalization is hard to sustain in a milieu of instant absorption. Everyone is or would like to be outside the system: "Throughout his career, Bill Knott (1940-) has maintained outsider status in American poetry. This is largely due to the fact that no literary camp can adequately house ... his body of work." Michael Burkard's writing "does not fit comfortably within either of these categories [i.e., confessional and Deep Image poetry]." And Theresa Hak Kyung Cha's works "defy easy categorization." The assumption is that the rest of the poets are easily categorized — far from true, especially if one asks them. Most of the hyperbole of our time concerns not so much craft or language as identity, an issue seldom invoked in poetry discussions before the 20th century. For Miguel Algarín, "to be a Nuyorican ... is to negotiate a hybrid identity." Jessica Hagedorn "writes from a postcolonial, diasporic aesthetic." "Chrystos is a Menominee poet whose commitment to both North American and queer identities has produced a distinctive and compelling body of poetry." "Minnie Bruce Pratt's identity as a Southern queer poet is at the forefront of her works and their significance. She speaks the often unspeakable." "Outspoken, politicized, and prolific, Eileen Myles ... offers an energetic, anarchic, and inventive lesbian voice that has helped free many gay women writers to gain access to details of their lives." Naomi Shihab Nye's poems reflect "both her ethnicity and ethnicity in general" and "are windows into other worlds that invite empathy and healing comparisons." There are far fewer language-related assessments among the many encyclopedia entries, though there are some. Lyn Hejinian's texts "focus on the discursive construction of knowledge and subjectivity." But even here, modes of discourse are seen as inextricable from questions of identity. Thus, Carla Harryman's work "is concerned specifically with challenging and undermining hierarchies of gender and genre." In short, where everyone yesterday seemed dispensable, today no one is. Is the matter of proportion a function of retrospect? Does looking back necessarily diminish? Canon critics have argued the reverse, holding that the objects in your rearview mirror are not as large as they appear, that forces of canonicity and history are responsible for exalting them beyond any intrinsic merits assigned to them. Perhaps the two views are not in conflict when we consider that we select very few writers of the past, especially the distant past, for canonical distinction, i.e., for the class syllabus. Decades pass, and what seemed earthshaking or groundbreaking no longer seems so; thus contemporary poets' reputations are exaggerated while earlier reputations are somewhat diminished. Sheer volume has a lot to do with it. Consider that the poetic contribution of John Josselyn (1608-1700) consists of three short poems published in his two travel narratives. But in our own time, Gerald Locklin has published 100 books, while Robert Kelly has published "well over 50 books of poetry, four collections of short fiction, and a novel." The historical reasons for the obvious disparity in output include the demands of living in pre-20th-century America, in times when almost no one was a "professional" poet; the absence of any sense, before Matthew Arnold, that poetry mattered at all to ordinary working people; the complete absence of any institutional support, like that which has proliferated in the United States in the past half-century — i.e., grants, residencies, teaching positions, workshops, and the like; the general absence of any publishing opportunities besides a few popular magazines; and, of course, much shorter lives. Perhaps, most of all, it is hard to imagine being "lonely like that," as Adrienne Rich wrote in the early 1960s (in "Face to Face") of earlier times in this country; hard to imagine, for most of us, "all that lawlessness," each person living with his God-given secret, spelled out through months of snow and silence, burning under the bleached scalp This humble, sequestered idea of poetry is no longer with us, in spite of voices like that of the poet and critic Richard Howard, who has said that "we must restore poetry to that status of seclusion and even secrecy that characterizes our authentic pleasures." Or, more recently, the critic James Longenbach's observation that the large audience for poetry "has by and large been purchased at the cost of poetry's inwardness ... its strangeness." In spite of the tenor of book titles like The Marginalization of Poetry and After the Death of Poetry, and in spite of the almost complete removal of the study of poetry from the higher reaches of literary theoretical studies — postcolonialism, poststructuralism, and the New Historicism — the writing of poetry has never been more feverish. There are 300,000 poetry Web sites. Six years ago, an heir to the Lilly fortune — herself an aspiring poet — gave $100-million to Poetry magazine, though her own submissions were all rejected by the editor. Poets continue to graduate in ever-larger numbers from those much-maligned M.F.A. programs. It is easy to argue that poetry would benefit by returning to its magical desert spaces, but few poets, living or dead, have wished for obscurity. And fewer still would hand back a grant from the Geraldine R. Dodge Foundation or the National Endowment for the Arts, preferring to work in poverty and loneliness. Though it might be the best rebirth of all, no one can persuade poets to write less. We may have to wait till the next world economic collapse, or the next ice age, to have a poetry that is not magnificent. Satisfactory, when the time comes, will be good enough. Jeffrey H. Gray is a professor of English at Seton Hall University, author of Mastery's End: Travel and Postwar American Poetry (University of Georgia Press, 2005), and editor of The Greenwood Encyclopedia of American Poets and Poetry (Greenwood Press, 2006). http://chronicle.com Section: The Chronicle Review Volume 55, Issue 25, Page B14