Oct 26, 2013


A.L. Nielsen. A Brand New Beggar
Bolder, CO, and Normal, IL: Steerage Press, 2013

A.L. Nielsen’s new book is praised by Evie Shockley in one of the blurbs on the back cover, for the fireworks lit under its language, and the way in which it stitches together places, people, and moments.  Stitching al those things together is actually, in Nielsen’s case, like playing series of chords (with riffing and variation) on a (blues) guitar; only he uses an interesting and quite hard to master technique—open tuning.

“Seven Series,” for instance, is a poem that illustrates Nielsen’s preoccupation with seriality (whence the recurrent motifs of trains, train sets, traveling, slide-shows, etc, and whatever involves sequences or cycles or reformulations), which relates him to Spicer, but it would be a mistake to make of that a pervasive feature, as Nielson is actually related to so many and to nobody in particular.  (Apropos of Spicer, though, “Hidden Lake” is a funny but convoluted reprise of “Concord Hymn.”)  The first one of the seven series stands proof—“An end to all this// Eschatology”—a distich which, pardon my punning, should indeed make history.  Or is, in any way, an opening that promises a lot.  Nielsen chooses ‘not to deliver’ though, and so, what follows sounds (not like Spicer but) more like a sequence of Koch’s blandest surreal (yet metropolitan) jokes—“I have/ To hurry// Here// They close/ The dictionaries/ At seven” (5th series)—and after trying to compensate for the lightness with a ‘hard surrealist’ totally puzzling 6th series, the last one, like a Dadaist farce, confirms the closing of dictionaries “at seven”: the 7th series contains no words. 
Many other ‘jokes’ in the book are actually much more relevant than that, such as “41” which is a “series” of mass media and political and everyday clichés in a crescendo where totally probable absurdities (“Continuous/ Breaking developments,” “We ran a touchdown/ And the enemy didn’t show up”) lead to a black humor cynicism that would make Frederick Seidel jealous: “We get more punch per bomb// A struggle to the last child.”
“Higher Math”—higher because it’s about wild geese flying up in the sky, and math because the shape of the flocks is equated with the greater/lesser than symbol in mathematics—describes the phases of a contest between the hunter and his game which reminds one of Charles Simic’s mathematical symbolisms of crows in winter, only now (depleted of the visionary tone and) humorously remixed by a laconic Billy Collins.  Still, Nielsen manages to compress there both ecological concerns and a subtle ars poetica—“I wait unlicensed/ In the caesura of their seasons/ Scrawling with my shotgun in mid-mud.”

            After a number of such poems the reader realizes that there are apparently two poets taking turns in this collection (both of them versatile and alluding to quite a deal of contemporary writers, as already stated), one that writes song-like (and most of the times deceitfully) light poems, and another one that specializes in hard to follow, contorted syntax, nagging indeterminacy, and non sequiturs.  The former’s palette ranges from idiosyncratic limericks, “A is for an/ Other/ Part of our/ Name a/ Part…[etc]” (“Anna”), to emphatic blues poems, “Really doesn’t matter/ How hard I sing/ Night still/ Removes everything”) (“Small Song”), to political critique and creed, “Word arrives that Jesse Helms has died/ Tolson’s Africa shakes off a fly” (section IV, the best in the book), and the oracular (and therefore, political) poetry of place “There’s no/ Their there” (section II).  The ‘other poet’ often places his pieces right next to the first, letting the reader decide which poem is a make-up for which, as for instance, right before the above quoted “Small Song”, “Rivers” (meant to also be read as “reverse”?) deals with the same theme, only in a more complicated unnecessarily philosophical (and thus facile) way—“An idea/ Pitched in the rest//Taken up by the rest/ Rests.”  Compare the two finales, “The finite work of morning/ Refrains// Evening/ The score,” and “Really doesn’t matter/ What I might will/ Night/ Still.” 

Nielsen sometimes acknowledges the ambivalence (“I hear voices/ From the other’s side/ As if someone wore/ Reading a Poem” (my emphasis)—he puns in a poem involving an ingenious typographical word-play, “Silence of the Iambs,” where the sparse irregular iambs are themselves the silenced… lambs), but the ‘less likable’ ‘other’ breaks loose in the last (and weakest) section, where he over-insists on the trite figure of the slide-show as disparate and sometimes painful or nostalgic memories.  When the jumbled enjambments and rumbling syntax seem to find a way of cohabitation and signification in “Zoo Slide,” the poet drops them altogether and switches to end stops and romance.  Still, the poem concluding the section and the book is an excellent one (and like most of the best poems, an instance of collaboration between the ‘two writers’ in the collection), a blues of strong rhythms, unexpected phrase turns, both sudden rhymes/puns and remote echoes fusing the personal and the political, “This suitcase intends/ A world/ Broke at the clasp/ Grasp// World gone wrong// […] These unintended/ Blues stones/ In my passway/ Cinders rasp/ In my draw/ Rail against the night/ Smokestacks steel strings/ Open tuning…”
            Still, the book’s major contribution is its poetry of place.  In section II, “From Kansas,” which is actually just a short preview, and then in the full-throttle section IV, “From Ghana,” Nielsen writes an intriguing, both alluring and aloof, mysterious one-of-a-kind poetry of locality.  The complexity and immensity of a place and culture are made palpable not by erotic immersion or elated enumerations, but by what we gradually sense is being left out—as well as by the speaker’s own puzzlement and wonder.  Yet it is not primarily ellipsis that does the trick in these laconic poems, but the always fresh eye of the observer, and the refusal to categorize or generalize (mainly manifest in the amazing capacity to shift and turn and [still] be inclusive within draconic brevity).  These are poems in which the tools of imagist poetry are used to the opposite ends. As (perhaps) post-post-colonial poetry, such verse not only refuses the stance of the western colonist/traveler/tourist/orientalist, but, without professing the old news of postmodernist disenchantment, does not even consider the option (as it is strongly skeptical of the actual possibility) of description (while being, among other things, once in a while descriptive as well).  The result is a sequence of multifaceted puzzle pieces for us to (re)arrange and approximate the mystery(ies) of both the place and the speaker, and thus participate in the incomprehensible experience of being a contemporary inter-cultural person interacting on different levels with a certain place of wondrous culture and landscape marked by political injustice and tragic history/ies.  Just like in open tuning (a figure so relevantly employed by the poet in the above quoted blues), Nielsen does not bother to ‘fret’ the strings of the reality he encounters, but (apparently) plays them as they come, and the strong effect results from the order, frequency, and rhythm in which he chooses to pick or strike them. 

                       Gratitude for such wary
                              Signage as
                              Sings to me
                              Each morning
                              Such as this
                              Muddy Waters pouring
                              From seaside speakers
                              Homecoming baptism

            The echoes—sing/sign—of the speaker’s personal cultural background present on the public globalized speakers’ playlist represent signage for him to get back home every morning, but (the “gratitude” for) such experience is best expressed by an oxymoron—“homecoming baptism.”  Certain layers of American culture here (the icon of Muddy Waters but also the more recent blues and pop hits with lyrics celebrating being baptized in muddy water) gain unexpected relevance as the speaker, in Ghana, is baptized in the muddy water of his true “home,” African(-American) culture and literature which he has studied and celebrated for decades.
In dialoging with or evoking other major rock culture figures, the poet seems to almost forget about the place he’s supposed to ‘tell us about.’  In a poem referencing “[Frank]” he writes, “The/ Mothers// Of necessity// Sang// Kansas/ Kansas/ do-do-dun to-to// It was/ For them/ An invention,” being as ironic at Zappa just as the latter once was at everybody, but at the same time giving him credit as a major artist (of the ‘necessary’ proportion).  Moreover, the doo wop refrain, if heard as forms of the verb to do, unexpectedly renders the language, the politics (necessary and of “necessity”), and the politics of language… of Kansas (and not only). 
Other times, the reader has more dots to connect as (in alluding to Nkrumah’s biography for instance or) in the poem concluding “From Ghana,” where the actor Omar Epps (who, we are not told, but presumably know, starred in Deadly Voyage, playing the part of a sole survivor of a group of stowaways from Ghana) introduces himself to the speaker “in the market” (‘here’, ‘there’?, what difference would it make?) and is “Surprised/ As I am/ To find himself/ Talking to Elvis” (my emphasis).  What we have here in the ways the poet references rock culture is a (long awaited) brilliant sequel to David Wojahn’s rock and roll sonnets (since, after all, both Wojahn and Nielsen share an interest in “mystery,” as well as in… all sorts of “trains”), while also bringing such a different approach and perspective.  And, at last (in the poetry trying to speak of place and history and identities by manipulating symbols of popular music and culture), such a different purpose.


Oct 13, 2013


Shane McCrae, Blood, Mesilla Park, NM: Noemi Press, 2013

Shane McCrae’s Blood—The Unstoppable Epic

“Probably the real story of race in the United States, […] an epic that spans three centuries,” reads Kathleen Ossip’s blurb on the back cover of Shane McCrae’s latest collection.  Terrance Hayes concurs with an accolade that sounds like an intersection of his own language and the author’s: “His disconcerting language tracks the estrangement and strangeness, the severance and severity of a Self seized by history.”

McCrae professes a poetics of capitalization and line breaks, where enjambments are not so much meant to amplify aesthetic quality and meaning-related complexity, but convey subversive messages and ensure survival while telling histories of massacre, abuse, and misfortune.

Some niggers isn’t and they is
Never gonna be and them I known
And I remember best
is niggers I seen dead             / Remember even
the breaths they was
always breathing

(“Heads”—“2. Captured and Returned to His Master”)

The “niggers” both exist and do not exist, as they (sort of apophatically) are beyond the ‘grammar’ of the establishment and they endure in ways that elude the masters’ control.  The enjambment transforms an auxiliary verb into a main one asserting existence (and they is/ Never gonna be) and then further assertion is hidden behind the capitalized “Never.”  Bad grammar and typography thus renders unexpected value to the language distorted and translated by rebellion and by the gasping breath of the chased slave—ontology (“they is”), knowledge (“I known”) and cultural heritage (“I remember best”) are thus established and fiercely defended under the nose of “the Master” with the latter’s tools.

            Slashes also play a shrewd role throughout the book.  In the quote above for instance the slash is placed ‘unnaturally’ far from the line break it feigns to accommodate, and acts like a hideout for the capitalized “Remember,” and for the way in which the slaves get “even” by never forgetting those who “was the breaths” of their culture.

In fact, McCrae accomplishes a lot with very few devices.  There is barely any description in the book yet the images (and the sounds) are unforgettable.  Complexity is reached by ellipsis, by clashing scenes, narratives, and voices, by speech that seems to be drowned out by other speeches, memories, and fears, but then resurfaces even stronger than before.  The poetry flux is a wave encountering particles of matter (of matter that matters, the one of life and death) and thus seems to be obnubilated, but actually nothing blocks it; in fact, it is exactly such brief (and horrific) episodes that render it perceptible.
Ranting, raging, rambling syncopated voices that seem to sound the same, cover in fact an impressive number of forms and styles—satire (“the silver [money] rattled as I ran it sounded like/ a chained dog jumping”), black (or rather cynic-horror) comedy (“he was barefoot in/ Shit when the white men found him     /[author’s slash] He stank so bad/ They couldn’t hang him didn’t want those feet/ over their heads// That’s why they burned him”), prophecy (“Our Savior comes disguised     /[author’s slash] Like a thief in the night/ […] down from the cross/ And he must set the cross on fire”), ballad/blues/farce (in “The Ballad of Cathay Williams William Cathay”), elegy (“Brother it keep us like a pond keep leaves/ from trees on the pond they/ Rotting in the thing they lived on/ […]/ Brother our father me and him / [author’s slash] That’s how it love/ keep us together”), etc, etc.

            The fragmentary epic seems to go full circle when in the last poem, the speaker sardonically acknowledges that “I thought// Who do I got to kill/ to get all the way free/ And it was     more people than it was/ alive in the world,” thus echoing as if from the other end of the world (and history) the oppressive image at the beginning of the book, with its ominous enjambment-puns: “The death in us was bigger than the life in us/
except for some of us     it seems like now/ And them the niggers got their heads cut off…”  The massacred rebels are still around (here and) “now,” moreover, they are the (atemporal?) here and now, they have become the matter history is made of (they are beheaded now and… them).  But if the victim, the enslaved, the exterminated want to be free (not to survive…), they’ll have to imagine a holocaust the world is not big enough for.  McCrae goes beyond the victim/victimizer overlap and reaches the negative (capability and) sublime of a poetry that, in order to be true, will have not only to account for but also reenact the endless horrors of his people’s history.

The characters’ confessions are truncated, contorted, distorted, stressed, compressed, pressed for time and space.  If it is an epic it is one of deeply subjective and incoherent voices that have no time or reverence neither for the ample Homeric meter and its circuitous rhetoric—the “niggers’ song” is not meant for ceremony or leisure—nor for the gluttonous Whitmanesque enumerations—since although they crave and recognize democracy (“The Yankees were/ Shaking hands” and calling the slaves by their names) they haven’t really enjoyed any justice or democracy yet.  The vision is not huge, but relentlessly ramified, not gigantic, but unstoppable.  That’s why—it gotta be continued…


Oct 4, 2013

MARGENTO--New GRAPH POEM Installment: Andriescu, bissett, Bowering, Marlatt, Militaru, Warland

From T h e   G r a p h   P o e m

Radu Andriescu

 bill bissett

Marilyn Bowering

Daphne Marlatt (photo by Jocelyn Mandryk)
Iulia Militaru 

Raluca Tanasescu

Betsy Warland

Martin Woodside

From T h e   G r a p h   P o e m

Featuring Poets/Translators:
Radu Andriescu, bill bissett, Marilyn Bowering, Daphne Marlatt, Iulia Militaru, Raluca Tanasescu, Betsy Warland, Martin Woodside

(With Announced Forthcoming Ramifications from David Baker, bill bissett, Osbern Bokenham, Iulia Militaru, and Radu Vancu)

(traducerile în limba română în josul paginii)

Radu Andriescu
Morning of the whale

Stamps of light shine over the water
Volatile water lilies.  From its concrete eye
the whale sprouting small metal spheres.
The cold blue benches around the pool
are empty, in the morning.  My two year old daughter, muffled
mirthful, scrambles around the campus[1]
whale.  Monochrome trams roll by
heading downtown, fissures the glazed silence
among the hostels.

Translated from the Romanian by Martin Woodside

Iulia Militaru

Dance 1
me and the sun are home, but where is his silence?  The dance of how I hover over you, over them. I commit murder, while he keeps writing impassively.
(one m
ore step o
ver t
he tw
oof u s)
How can you not understand these parts
Assemblaged by your daughter’s
Words as she runs in the dark[2]
On the concrete edges of the whale, here and now 

The woman gets a taste of spring.
My father loves our silence,
This thought shattered in voices. Listen.
I’m the sun of his son, the son of the sun.

(Who shall say I’m not, with all her dancing,
the happy genius of my household?)
(ast ep
in dan
sing ov
er l eav
es. Overy ou)
annihilate (yourselves) on this page.  The world murdered individually![3]  This very day let’s die again.  And then, just the steps we take over the father.

Translated from the Romanian by MARGENTO

Betsy Warland
Let me slip
(from Daphne Marlatt & Betsy Warland, Two Women in a Birth)

‘let me slip into something more comfortable’
she glides across the
lābi, to glide, to slip

(labile; lābilis:
labia; labialis)
la la la
‘my labyl mynde. . .’[4]
lābilis, labour, belabour, collaborate, elaborate[5]

‘The Hebrews named their letters, some guttural. . .  others dental. . . and so they call others, labial, that is letter of the lips’

slip of the tongue
‘the lability of innocence’        
labium ‘any of the four folds of tissue of the female external genitalia’
four corners of the earth
four gates of Eden
labia majora (the ‘greater lips’)
la la la
labia minora
(the ‘lesser lips’)
not two mouths but three!
slipping one over on polarity

slippage in the text
you & me collābi, (to slip together)
like notes in class[6]

o labilism o letter of the lips
o grafting of our slips

labile lovers
‘prone to undergo displacement in position or change in nature, form, chemical composition; unstable’

giving the one authoritative version the slip
graft, graphium, graphein, to write

slippery lines

thought is collaboration

Marilyn Bowering
an encounter with the 17th century Hebridean bard,
Mairi Macleod

1. Cauldron


When she wrote a song critical of one of the chiefs, she was banished to a west coast island. While she was exiled there, she composed another song.[7]

I am a cow    such a beautiful plaited

tail    A marvel comes out     two stresses
a rhyme    several verses

in the rear-end gait
(Moo)       of a cow (they say)

But how do I know   I must take
a bone flute and       blow through the holes

to make    music

Each time that I lick
and don’t bite     the bull face

the bull mind
I hear what    they think

Those heavy bulls   with their balls
do not know

They fuck     whatever lies down
or backs up

So I walk ahead    on my own and compose[8]

I am still a cow       in their minds
but in mine    there’s a poem[9]

God’s breath    in the grass
God’s hand    in the wind

and I’m not     just
not just    blinded with shit[10]

bill bissett
whn i first came to vankouvr

from halifax by way uv Duluth
thousands uv peopul wud swim on
english bay in th sun    now no wun duz
th sewrs go into th watr instead[11]

                        travelling thru wales it
occurd to me agen wher duz it go from
a train     on to th tracks evree wun sd
my doktor tol me cattul eet shit    thats
what the cows alongside th tracks dew ar
waiting for whn th trains pass

                     so on english bay in th
watrs we cud have cows diving    they
wud b watr cows    peopul wud b abul
to go into th watr agen n cud ride

th cows on th surf n out to th boats
or th universitee

                        i remembr a place in
nova scotia calld cow bay      that must
b wher th cows live

                                    iul go back
ther n bring th cows west

P o e m u l   g r a f

Poeți/traducători prezenți:
Radu Andriescu, bill bissett, Marilyn Bowering, Daphne Marlatt, Iulia Militaru, Raluca Tanasescu, Betsy Warland, Martin Woodside

(Cu viitoare ramificații anunțate – David Baker, bill bissett, Osbern Bokenham, Iulia Militaru și Radu Vancu)

Radu Andriescu
Dimineaţa balenei

Timbrele de lumină strălucesc deasupra apei.
Nuferi volatili. Din ochiul de beton
al balenei ţâşnesc mici sfere metalice.
Băncile albastre de frig din jurul bazinului
sunt goale, dimineaţa. Fetiţa mea de doi ani, înfofolită
în veselie, aleargă pe marginea balenei[12]
din campus. Tramvaiele rostogolite monocrom
spre centru fisurează poleiul de tăcere
dintre cămine.

Iulia Militaru

Dans 1
eu şi soarele în această casă, unde-i tăcerea lui? Dansul din plutirea mea deasupra ta, deasupra lor. Eu ucid,  el scrie liniştit mai departe.
un pas
te no
id  o i)
Cum nu înţelegi aceste piese
Laolată puse de cuvintele
Fetei tale ce aleargă-n umbră[13]
Pe marginea balenei, acum aici[14]

Femeia gustă din primăvară.
Tatăl meu iubeşte tăcerea noastră,
Gândul sfărâmat în voci. Ascultă.
I’m the sun of his son, the son of the sun.

(Who shall say I’m not, prin tot dansul ei,
the happy genius of my household?)
(un pa
sîn da
ns pe
ste foi. Vo
distrugeţi(-vă), pe-această pagină. Asasinare individuală a lumii![15] Chiar azi, din nou să murim. Apoi, doar paşii noştri deasupra tatălui.

Betsy Warland
Stai să-mi trag
(din Daphne Marlatt & Betsy Warland, Doua femei intr-o singura nastere)

– stai să-mi trag pe mine ceva mai confortabil,
                                    traversă ea lunecând
lābi, a glisa, a luneca

(labile; lābilis
labia; labialis)
                        la la la
„mintiea mia labilă. . .”[16]
lābilis, laborare, bălăcărare, colaborare, elaborare[17]

„Evreii și-au denumit literele – unele guturale. . . altele dentale. . . iar pe altele, labiale, adică litere din buze”

lapsus al limbii
                        „labilitatea inocenței”
labium „fiecare dintre cele patru pliuri de țesut ale organelor genitale feminine externe”
patru colțuri ale pământului
patru porți ale Edenului
                                    labia majora („buzele mai mari”)
                                    la la la
                                                labia minora
                                    („buzele mai mici”)
nu două guri ci trei!
una trăgând-o peste la polaritate

                        alunecare în text
tu & eu collābi, (a luneca împreună)
în labializare!   
ca notele de curs[18]

oh labilism oh din buze scrisori   
oh grefându-ne una pe-alta scăpări

îndrăgostiți labili
„predispus să-și modifice poziția sau să-și schimbe natura, forma ori compoziția chimică: instabil”

lăsând Ediția de referință cu buza umflată
grefă graphium graphein a scrie

                                    rânduri lunecoase

gândul e colaborare

traducere de Raluca & Chris Tanasescu (MARGENTO)

Marilyn Bowering
o întâlnire cu poeta-bardos de secol XVII din Insulele Hebride,
Mairi Macleod

1. Cuptor


Când a compus un cântec critic la adresa unuia dintre șefi, a fost exilată pe o insulă de pe coasta de vest.  În surghiun a compus un alt cântec[19].

Sunt o vacă       așa de frumoasă împletită

mi-e coada     O minune iese     două bătăi
o rimă     câteva versuri

din pasul legănat al dosului
(Muu)     de vacă (zice-se)

Dar de-unde să știu eu       îmi treb’e
fluierul de os      să-i suflu-n găuri

să fac     muzici

de câte ori ling
și nu mușc        fața de bou

mintea de bou
I-aud     ce gândesc

Grei boii ăia     cu coaiele alea
și n-au habar

Fut       tot ce zace
sau dă-ndărăt

așa că merg ’nainte       singură compun[20]

Sunt tot o vacă     în capul lor
dar într-al meu     e un poem[21]

suflarea Domnului     în iarbă
mâna Domnului      în vânt

și nu sunt      doar
nu doar     chiorâtă de căcat[22]

                                    traducere de MARGENTO

bill bissett
cnd am ajuns prima dat în vancuvr

din hali fax trecnd prn d lut
mii de ua men n o tau n
in gliș bei n soare              acu n mai e nime
s vars knali zăril n apă n locu lor

                        kl torind prin uei lz mia
tr cut iar prin kp un d s duce din
trun tren   pe și n au zs toț
doct rul mia sps k vi tl mnnk kkt    asta
fac vacil p lng klia f rată   
teap t s treak tr nu

            așa kn in gliș bei n
ap am putea aduce vaci s fak scufun dăr   ar
fi vaci d apă        ua men iar put ia
să in tren apă iar șarp utea k lari

vacil pe valur ș pn la bărci
sau pn la un versi tat

                        m iamint sc un loc n
nova scotia un golf cau bei        un d tre
bu s tr iasc vacil

                                    te ntorci
acol ș aduci vacil ncoa n vest

                                    Traducere de MARGENTO

[1] These last three lines are ramified by “How can you not understand these parts/ Assemblaged by your daughter’s/ Words as she runs in the dark/ On the concrete edges of the whale, here and now” in Iulia Militaru’s “Lucia. Dance 1”
[2] Daphne Marlatt and Betsy Warland, “Let me slip” from the longer sequence “Reading and Writing Between the Lines” in Two Women in a Birth
[3] Ramified by the “Do you think I could walk pleasantly and/ well-suited toward annihilation?line in the vertex “Simile” by David Baker in its turn ramified by “Ce-ti spune unul dintre mortii tai?” by Radu Vancu
[4] From Osbern Bokenham, Lives of Saints (translator’s note)
[5] This stanza ramifies the couplet “I am still a cow       in their minds/ but in mine    there’s a poem” from Marilyn Bowering’s “Threshold…” the first excerpt from “1. Cauldron”
[6] This stanza ramifies the lines “How can you not understand these parts/ Assemblaged by your daughter’s/ Words as she runs in the dark” from Iulia Militaru’s “Lucia. Dance 1”
[7] Tobar an Dualchais http://www.tobarandualchais.co.uk/fullrecord/13436/1 (Marilyn Bowering’s note)
[8] This line and the following couplet ramify the lines “I think this is a lousy pome,/ what do yu think, shit-head reader” from bill bissett’s “[either way, as if what yu decide]”
[9] This couplet is ramified by the stanza “(labile; lābilis:/ labia; labialis)/ la la la/ ‘my labyl mynde. . .’/ lābilis, labour, belabour, collaborate, elaborate” from “Let me slip” in the longer sequence “Reading and Writing between the Lines” by Daphne Marlatt and Betsy Warland
[10] Ramifies the lines “my doktor tol me cattul eet shit   that’s/ what th cows alongside th tracks dew  ar” in bill bissett’s “whn i first came to vankouvr”
[11] The last three lines ramify “and tried to make sense in this terrible world/ of all the hard life, always hard/  to live in a velvety sewer” from Iulia Militaru’s “No Language for Old Men”
[12] Aceste trei versuri sunt ramificate de fragmentul „Cum nu înțelegi aceste piese/ [...]/ Pe marginea balenei, acum aici” din Iulia Militaru, „Lucia. Dans I”
[13] Daphne Marlatt și Betsy Warland, „Stai să-mi trag” din ciclul „Citind și scriind printre rânduri”
[14] Ultimele patru versuri ramifică fragmentul de la „Băncile albastre de frig” la „marginea balenei” din „Dimineața balenei” de Radu Andriescu
[15] Ramificat aici de versurile „Crezi c-aș putea merge cu plăcere/ și la costum spre anihilare?” din „Comparație” de David Baker, la rândul lui ramificat de „Ce-ți spune unul dintre morții tăi” de Radu Vancu
[16] In original „my labyl mynde”, din Osbern Bokenham (Lives of Saints) (n. trad.)
[17] Această strofă ramifică versurile „Sunt tot o vacă     în capul lor/ dar într-al meu     e un poem” din „Pragul” – „1. Cuptor (fragment [Când a compus…])” de Marilyn Bowering
[18] Această strofă ramifică versurile „Cum nu înţelegi aceste piese/ Laolată puse de cuvintele/ Fetei tale ce aleargă-n umbră” din „Lucia. Dans 1” de Iulia Militaru
[19] Tobar an Dualchais http://www.tobarandualchais.co.uk/fullrecord/13436/1 (Nota lui Marilyn Bowering)
[20] Acest vers și distihul care îl succede ramifică versurile „eu cred că puiemul ăsta-i varză,/ tu ce crezi, cititor de căcat” din „[șașa, șașa, de parcă ce hotărăști]” de bill bissett
[21] Distih ramificat de Daphne Marlatt și Betsy Warland, „Stai să-mi trag” – „– „(labile; lābilis
labia; labialis)/ la la la/ „mintiea mia labilă. . ./ lābilis, laborare, bălăcărare, colaborare, elaborare” din ciclul „Citind și scriind printre rânduri”
[22] Acest cuplet ramifică versurile „ doct rul mia sps k vi tl mnnk kkt    asta/ fac vacil p lng klia f rată    aș” din nodul „cnd am ajuns prima dat în vancuvr” de bill bissett
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