Didn't you like the way the ants help the peony globes open by eating the glue off? Weren't you cheered to see the ironworkers sitting on an I-beam dangling from a cable, in a row, like starlings, eating lunch, maybe baloney on white with fluorescent mustard? Wasn't it a revelation to waggle from the estuary all the way up the river, the kill, the pirle, the run, the rent, the beck, the sike barely trickling, to the shock of a spring? Didn't you almost shiver, hearing book lice clicking their sexual dissonance inside an old Webster's New International, perhaps having just eaten out of it izle, xyster, and thalassacon? What did you imagine lies in wait anyway at the end of a world whose sub-substance is glaim, gleet, birdlime, slime, mucus, muck? Forget about becoming emaciated. Think of the wren and how little flesh is needed to make a song. Didn't it seem somehow familiar when the nymph split open and the mayfly struggled free and flew and perched and then its own back broke open and the imago, the true adult, somersaulted out and took flight, seeking the swarm, mouth-pans vestigial, alimentary canal come to a stop, a day or hour left to find the desired one? Or when Casanova took up the platter of linguine in squid's ink and slid the stuff out the window, telling his startled companion, "The perfected lover does not eat." As a child, didn't you find it calming to imagine pinworms as some kind of tiny batons giving cadence to the squeezes and releases around the downward march of debris? Didn't you glimpse in the monarchs what seemed your own inner blazonry flapping and gliding, in desire, in the middle air? Weren't you reassured to think these flimsy hinged beings, and then their offspring, and then their offspring's offspring, could navigate, working in shifts, all the way to Mexico, to the exact plot, perhaps the very tree, by tracing the flair of the bodies of ancestors who fell in this same migration a year ago? Doesn't it outdo the pleasures of the brilliant concert to wake in the night and find ourselves holding hands in our sleep?

... Note: This poem, brought to my attention by Robert Pinsky in this week's WaPo column, reminds me again why Kinnell is on my list of to be read American poets; the images in this poem - absolute deliciousness to be savored.

I came across the word "chautauqua" first in Prisig's "Zen and The Art of Motorcycle" when I read[1] it years ago, and it was something that came back to me this morning as I was reading Daniel Hoffman's lovely book length poem "Brotherly Love", which I picked up in the trash racks of my drug depot last evening for $1. Hoffman in this book, recreates the saga of William Penn, the founder of Pennsylvania, and recerates in rhyme (deploying words such as issimus, pone, payo etc) the pre-history of what was there before Penn landed at Delaware with his grand idea of "brotherly love". I have read through half of of this long poem, and perhaps will make myself finish it by this evening.

Speaking of love and bookstores, in my brief foray last night, I also managed to read about half an essay on Rilke by Seven Brikets[2] from his book "Readings". And Brikets's retelling of all the logrolling Rilke managed to do to support his calling had me laughing in the aisle. The essay also brought back to my attention John Berryman's famous prounouncement, in the voice of the drunk misygonist Henry of his "Dreamsongs": "Rilke was a jerk". While I know better than to dig into the wretched personal lives of artists, writers and poets[2], Rilke's life was indeed particularly appaling.

I was discussing this last night with my friend K, when she used the label "jerkface" to describe someone - Allan Bloom[3] I think. This meta-issue had actually come up many times before in my blabbering on artists (or more generally, great men's) lives around women. They seem to think that their greatness should be discounted because it came at a cost of them being absolute "bitches" to their families; classic cases in point would be Prince Siddartha, and now Rilke. This also drives some women to hate Woody Allen intensely for his disaster of a biography. I think I am more forgiving of these transgressions as women should be too, for isn't art supposed to be redemptive?

Finally, I think I might have figured out what Max Beerbohm was saying in his excellent parody[4] of the James-ian style, in his book of parodies on writers, "The Christmas Garland". And as I discovered last night, if you are typing out Henry James like utterances, it helps if you can hold your breath as if you were just about to take a dump when feeling extremely constipated[5].

We end this chautauqua with this public service cartoon (supplied by witty K) on minding your language:

[1] I skimmed, and even skipped over some of, the long philosophical bits to enjoy the motorcycle travelouge bits. I still think Prisig would have been an great travel writer, along the lines of Bruce Chatwin, if he wasn't batshit crazy