Just out: The Book of the Red King, a collection of poems about the mysterious Red King, the lunar Precious Wentletrap, and the transforming Fool (Phoenicia Publishing.) Illuminated by Clive-Hicks-Jenkins. "A must-read and a distinctive, evocative voice. There is no one like Marly Youmans" -Kim Bridgford. Please check out the link above for news, review clips, and more!

Friday, March 02, 2012

Wroth Redux, with chickens--

Cockerel courtesy of sxc.hu
and Philip MacKenzie of London
Approximately one year ago I (the mild-mannered, the peaceable, the tactful) committed a fulmination, a fume, and a fuss entitled Wroth, Wroth with Ted Hughes. It had to do with chickens and old ladies and lovelessness. You may want to rush over and read it all over again (because naturally you have read it once, being all up on matters of chickens and old ladies--and you want love. Don't we all!)

Anyway that little fuse of a post kept burning until it ignited a little bonfire. Jeremiah Douglas has written a very interesting response called "An Unfortunately Collected Poem by Ted Hughes." Whereas I dashed off an impetuous and perhaps feather-brained response, he has connected my little fluster to issues of ethics, good and evil, and good and bad poetry. And in doing so, he has said some very interesting things, and not just about Ted Hughes and chickens.


  1. It's a shame when I lighter of candles lights them in order to burn the building down, rather than shed light... (?)

  2. For me, chickens and poetics are perfect companions. I am reminded of a poem entitled "Poetics" by John Matthias, in his book Kedging: http://www.saltpublishing.com/books/smp/9781844713288.htm

  3. Thanks for the link--I looked and read the excerpt and shall put him on my list.

    Am sending you a copy of the current fb yack about your post to Twitter in just a second.

  4. Drat. I forgot. It's too big to go.


Alas, I must once again remind large numbers of Chinese salesmen and other worldwide peddlers that if they fall into the Gulf of Spam, they will be eaten by roaming Balrogs. The rest of you, lovers of grace, poetry, and horses (nod to Yeats--you do not have to be fond of horses), feel free to leave fascinating missives and curious arguments.