Harriet’s policy is sure to win admirers in the banal, small-minded circles of po-biz.

Did Ruth Lilly give all that money so her memory could lie down with pettiness and paranoia?

The dear lady, who loves all Harriet Monroe stood for, must be outraged.

Readers of this blog: shouldn’t you be, too?

The Poetry Foundation’s Blog-Harriet has deleted on-topic posts and comments without explanation. Yes, Harriet has inhibited discussion with secretive, autocratic vitriol.

Please make your feelings known on Harriet.

We are banished—no reason ever given—so we cannot express our feelings on Harriet.

Which is just as well.

We are having such an awfully good time — right here.


  1. thomasbrady said,

    December 24, 2009 at 2:11 pm

    At Ramsgate

    The children are playing upstairs.
    I am here, at Ramsgate, saying my prayers.
    Victoria, the future queen, is ill;
    Leaches are brought; they suck on us, still.
    Leave my babies and my blood alone.
    Your generosity is not for me,
    Your manifesto, a stone.

    –Thomas Brady

  2. thomasbrady said,

    December 24, 2009 at 2:13 pm

    We Are Just Starting

    It is my duty to make poetry great.
    If you love, if you love, you will be too late.
    If you practice today, you may not play tomorrow.
    If you plan happiness, look, here she is, standing next to you casually: sorrow.
    It is my desire to put desire into this.
    Can language really compete with a kiss?

    –Thomas Brady

  3. thomasbrady said,

    December 24, 2009 at 2:17 pm

    Shakespeare Sonnet #66

    Tired with all these, for restful death I cry,
    As to behold desert a beggar born,
    And needy nothing trimm’d in jollity,
    And purest faith unhappily forsworn,
    And gilded honour shamefully misplac’d,
    And maiden virtue rudely strumpeted,
    And right perfection wrongfully disgrac’d,
    And strength by limping sway disabled
    And art made tongue-tied by authority,
    And folly, doctor-like, controlling skill,
    And simple truth miscall’d simplicity,
    And captive good attending captain ill:
    Tir’d with all these, from these would I be gone,
    Save that, to die, I leave my love alone.

  4. thomasbrady said,

    December 24, 2009 at 2:19 pm

    We Cannot Rely On Beauty

    We cannot rely on beauty, so we must use our will.
    Old beauties fade. Only the imagination is still.
    Only imagination does not move, while the eye,
    Who sees everything, watches you die.
    Send the wagon to the crest of the hill
    Where wagons stand around; tell the girls to fill
    Each wagon with exotic flowers
    Which are theirs, but once were ours.
    Put those flowers in bunches for the urns
    Which stand in cool shadows while the sun burns.

    –Thomas Brady

  5. thomasbrady said,

    December 24, 2009 at 2:24 pm

    The Poem That Came To Me Last Night

    The poem that came to me last night
    Has yet to be put into words–
    There was insufficient light,
    The flickering fell into halves, then thirds;
    I could not see to write.
    The subdivided sun questioned itself into nothing
    And I stood here alone in the darkness.
    Still, there was a poem climbing up my spine
    As if a tickle could lead to a thought,
    A thought to a plan, a plan to a crime,
    And unseen, to kill, and unseen, to never be caught.

    –Thomas Brady

  6. thomasbrady said,

    December 24, 2009 at 2:27 pm

    The Best

    The best are dead,
    Every longing body,
    Every gorgeous head.
    The best are dead.
    They were alive like us.
    Now they are trapped in pamphlets
    And advertisements on the bus,
    Insensate in our memories and print.
    They cannot smell mint.
    They lived more dangerously than we
    Who lounge on our couches, free.

    –Thomas Brady

  7. thomasbrady said,

    December 24, 2009 at 2:36 pm

    How Is It I Am Always Loving What I Do Not Really Love

    How is it, I am always loving what I do not really love?
    Falsity, which lives in my eyes, makes them look with love truly
    On the false, and I look away from what I should look upon,
    Even when love draws near, and innocently this all goes on,
    Since my eyes spring from the dark dust, watching darkly,
    Until light gives my sight a sight which makes me sigh, since by
    That light I see, but I see not the light itself, which, I have heard,
    Knows no other forest but this forest, with its forest bird.

    –Thomas Brady

  8. Christopher Woodman said,

    December 25, 2009 at 2:04 am


    His faltering flint
    sparks unease

    confusion in the valley
    the bleached smell

    of wet copper
    tongues charged

    with too much sheathed spite
    to seize the bit between them

    her ruined throat
    the silence of what

    cannot be rectified in strife
    greening the ruck between them.
    …………………………………………………Yasnaya Polyana 1866

    — Christopher Woodman

  9. Christopher Woodman said,

    December 25, 2009 at 2:13 am


    “An angel’s so light
    he’s impertinent!” she cries,
    laughing at her lover.

    (“But he’s treacherous too,”
    she consoles herself,
    turning on her side,

    “the way he doesn’t peg
    the tent of his body down
    at the end of the day.

    “To lie in his arms
    is much too risky—
    the lightest breeze can lift
    the corners of his canvas up
    to expose all that
    celestial proclivity
    as unnatural,
    as depravity!

    “—like lying there
    open and wanting
    while the busy neighbors gape—
    how it glistens! oh the lolly!”)

    — Christopher Woodman

  10. Christopher Woodman said,

    January 1, 2010 at 5:38 am

    For those of you who aren’t as up on my oeuvre as Henry Gould is, “the prognosis is not froggy” refers to the following poem of mine — readily available both in libraries and on-line.


    The gracious draught in the cleft shell,
    the cool reprieve, support, belief
    dipped from an old clay pot
    held out at noon
    with torn hands
    under the corrugate,
    that’s pure celestial water—
    though every western winner knows
    the village well is far more controversial,
    the undressed orchid’s
    purple parts and linen
    more dramatically confessed
    and soapy moss around the edges
    positively pubic.

    I wai.
    I drink the lot.

    Even the sweaty jewels of last night’s
    frog-storm chorus
    cling to the moist hope
    that living
    may be worth
    the heart-breaking thirst
    that’s sure enough
    to follow!
    ……………………………….published in RUNES: A Review of Poetry (2004)

    Notes included by the RUNES Editors:
    A cool drink of water is offered to the visitor at every Thai portal and doorway, however exalted or humble it may be. The wai is the quintessential Thai greeting in which the palms are placed together at chin level, fingertips pointing upward. The gesture denotes respect, gratitude and prayer.

    The only universal human gesture close to the wai is the hands raised high up over the head with the palms wide apart, indicating surrender.

  11. Christopher Woodman said,

    January 1, 2010 at 2:33 am

    Well look who’s having fun “going rug” too — Michael Robbins, Franz Wright, and Henry Gould!

    Gary B. Fitzgerald kindly alerted us to this discussion, if you could call it that, on Digitalemunction.

    Michael Robbins
    December 22, 2009
    You & Franz should start up yr own blog called “Lariat”! Or “Ozzie”! & then you can write open letters to Don Share & Travis Nichols that they will never read! Btw, you’re both now on moderation here too! Take that! Put that in yr Buffalo Bills cap & smoke it! Just kidding! About smoking a cap! Those fibers are probably carcinogenic!

    Happy New Year

    Henry Gould
    December 22, 2009
    You’ve got to quit smoking those expensive black jeans, Michael. It’s the fibers, man – grown in Mexico.

    The 2 best poets in America – one famous, the other a nobody (what was that guy’s name again? Fritz?) – on moderation at the Poetry Foundation. How terribly ironic… what does this say about the future of poetry in the next decade? I’m afraid the prognosis is not froggy.

    Cy Mathews
    December 22, 2009
    All good things in moderation, or; whatever.

    So whether or not Don Share and Travis Nichols are reading my Open Letters, the new poetry phrase ‘On Moderation’ is on everybody’s mind. Just say it and everybody knows just what you mean — and, of course, precisely where to go!

    Indeed, it’s getting to be right up there with ‘The Jorie Graham Rule!’


    P.S. You should all take a drag on my Golden Triangle sarong. Then come and join us for a blast!