Pleased to come home and find a beautiful little chapbook, Brian Teare's Pilgrim, in the mailbox. It was published by a little press in Berkeley, palOmine. If you can find a copy pick one up; here's one of the poems:
Errant : Reply.I also got a nice card from Ben Friedlander along with some more CDs of Pound's radio rantings. Since we talked about our pastoral project at the Z conference, I was amused to see he'd found a postcard with a photo of lava from Mt. Etna destroying a village in Sicily. (Sicily of course being the setting for the Idylls of Theocritus.) He advised me that whatever my anxieties, I was already a member of the "poetry family" (a better phrase, he thinks, than "poetry world"). To my ears that has a slightly sinister Sopranos-esque ring; but thanks all the same, Ben. I appreciate your kindness.
You are here now infernal beneath the meadow's far hem : do you want it to go on, this life a screed of signs, this struggle under the slumber of everything : you have tunneled this far : there is, isn't there, a language entirely wakeful, you ask : because all you left behind has dreamt of it