Well, we're in Day Two of the Fredericton Poetry Love-In, and as much as it surprises even us, this place gives a good name to the normally dreaded term "poetry marathon." Established and mid-career poets of all stripes reading with newbies and smart-as-whips grad writing students in three (count'em) daily sets of eight (multiply'em) readers each. The key may be the variety, or the fact everyone is sticking to the 3 1/2 poem limit, but this weekend has been (can we admit this?) fun.
Connolly keeps flogging his goddam "Plenty" poem, Tierney never seems to tire of his "Love Triangle" puns, but its best to play the old nuggets in new territory where the locals have been near-universally friendly. We both wish we could have heard a little more, but standouts among the students have included:
- Jennifer Houle's engaged sarcasm
- April Ripley's phenomenology of mountains/skies
- Danny Jacobs' Dodds-influenced image streams
- Carson Butts getting his teeth kicked in by a variety of European women
Party Saturday at ceremonial master Ross Leckie's digs. Connolly, in the micro window of sober-time these things offer, managed to dump precious NB craftbrew on his Strong-Bad shirt and the Leckster's kitchen floor. One for the Upper Canadians.
The Leckin8tor later cheerfully related an overheard snippet: Poets are like rats. We're thinking, those big gloomy Norway fuckers?
Someone mentioned fishnet stockings. There was a reprise of the ever-popular (all the kids are doing it) Pound vs. Stevens debate. Decision: Stevens by TKO. Finally, is there such a thing as an objectively bad poem? Jury is still sweating this one out and, in most cases, reading tonight at 8.
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