Before we move on to the next Bracket, let’s summarize the results in the East, First Round:

Mazer (16th seed) d. Ashbery (1st seed)  —Divine Rights 102, Self-Portrait in a Convex Mirror 101 (3 OT)

Heaney (2) d. Forche (15) —Death of a Naturalist 65, Taking Off My Clothes 61

Franz Wright (14) d. Geoffrey Hill (3) —-Alcohol 58, An Apology for the Revival of Christian Architecture in England 42

Billy Collins (4) d. Duffy (13) —Introduction to Poetry 90, Valentine 77

Marie Howe (12) d. Jorie Graham (5) —What the Living Do 63, San Sepolcro 60

Pinsky (6) d. Bernstein (11) —Samurai Song 80, All The Whiskey in Heaven 47

Oliver (7) d. Simic (10) —The Summer Day 67, The Fork 53

James Tate (8) d. Muldoon (9) —The Lost Pilot 71, Meeting the British 51

No crying for the illustrious losers.  Let’s move on, fans.

Here’s the second of the four brackets that will see action:

Midwest/South Bracket

1. Yusef Komunyakaa
2. Derek Walcott
3. Mark Doty
4. Rita Dove
5. M.S. Merwin
6. Carl  Phillips 
7. Andrew Hudgins
8. Terrance Hayes
9. Charles Wright
10. Natasha Trethewey
11. Elizabeth Alexander
12. Kevin Young
13. Sandra Cisneros
14. Patricia Smith
15. C.D. Wright
16. A.E. Stallings

Here’s the first two poets who will tangle and their poems, No. 1 seed Komunyakaa’s “Thanks” and 16th seed A.E. Stallings’ “Tantrum:”

Thanks for the tree
between me & a sniper’s bullet.
I don’t know what made the grass
sway seconds before the Viet Cong
raised his soundless rifle.
Some voice always followed,
telling me which foot
to put down first.
Thanks for deflecting the ricochet
against that anarchy of dusk.
I was back in San Francisco
wrapped up in a woman’s wild colors,
causing some dark bird’s love call
to be shattered by daylight
when my hands reached up
& pulled a branch away
from my face. Thanks
for the vague white flower
that pointed to the gleaming metal
reflecting how it is to be broken
like mist over the grass,
as we played some deadly
game for blind gods.
What made me spot the monarch
writhing on a single thread
tied to a farmer’s gate,
holding the day together
like an unfingered guitar string,
is beyond me. Maybe the hills
grew weary & leaned a little in the heat.
Again, thanks for the dud
hand grenade tossed at my feet
outside Chu Lai. I’m still
falling through its silence.
I don’t know why the intrepid
sun touched the bayonet,
but I know that something
stood among those lost trees
& moved only when I moved.


Struck with grief you were, though only four,
The day your mother cut her mermaid hair
And stood, a stranger, smiling at the door.

They frowned, tsk-tsked your willful, cruel despair,
When you slunk beneath the long piano strings
And sobbed until your lungs hiccupped for air,

Unbribable with curses, cake, playthings.
You mourned a mother now herself no more,
But brave and fashionable. The golden rings

That fringed her naked neck, whom were they for?
Not you, but for the world, now in your place,
A full eclipse. You wept down on the floor;

She wept up in her room. They told you this:
That she could grow it back, and just as long,
They told you, lying always about loss,

For you know she never did. And they were wrong.

Stay tune for the results of the Midwest/South First Round!


  1. Mallie Urn said,

    March 25, 2012 at 1:31 am

    A few of us have gotten together to discuss the bogus Graham/Howe call by the Ref.

    When was the Graham pome first published, we wonder, with the line “this is what the living do’, and how (and why) then could that have been transformed from Jorie’s timeless dialectic betwixt the gods and godesses of art philosophy and film – cast in the audio-visual form of thrusts and breaths of labor and sex – into the title of the prosaic little home-movie of Howe’s?

    How long are we going to be holding up the ham sandwich, and saying ‘this is a ham sandwich’?

    We call for a re-match.

    • thomasbrady said,

      March 25, 2012 at 1:59 pm

      The Scarriet March Madness Committee has agreed to revisit its decision.

      However, since the tournament this year features Rita Dove’s anthology, Dove may have to come under scrutiny as well: why did she pick only one poem by Graham and Howe—sharing the phrase “What the living do?”

      The Committee reserves the right to explore every avenue and channel of this matter.

      The Graham poem was published first.

      Graham and Howe’s paths did cross in Cambridge, MA—with Lucie Brock-Broido, they were members of what one wag termed the Barbie Doll School of Poetry in the early 1980s.

      But more important: we need specific testimony in clear discourse by our readers as to the remarkable qualities of the Graham effusion—for the refs claim, in what we must assume is in good faith, that the excellence of the Graham poem is not self-evident—and thus any evidence in writing that can be brought forward will be necessary to alter the result. If the Graham poem is, in fact, vague, the result cannot be changed.

      • noochinator said,

        March 25, 2012 at 9:19 pm

        As a mouth-breathing lumpenprole
        With limited understanding,
        I say stick with Howe:
        Jorie’s poem is too demanding.

        • Mallie Urn said,

          March 26, 2012 at 11:03 am

          What the fuck is this shit? Fuck you.

          • Mallie Urn said,

            March 26, 2012 at 11:15 am

            Who’s “nooch” ? that YOU, Tom? – trying to piss me off ALL FUCKING DAY. Everything too nice around here??? Okay, woo-woo, congrats, brother – you did it. There you go.

            • thomasbrady said,

              March 26, 2012 at 4:01 pm

              For the last time, Nooch is not me!

        • Yoko Urn said,

          March 29, 2012 at 3:08 am

          Another suburban Nazi–
          Small-minded and mean.
          One line of mine holds more
          Majesty than you’ve ever seen.

          • Yoko Urn said,

            March 29, 2012 at 3:12 am

            And history will have
            An even worse beating for you.
            The open-heart holds up much finer
            Than the ironic cartoon.

    • doubleyouaye said,

      March 26, 2012 at 2:00 am

      Get over it! Graham lost because she’s awful.

      • Mallie Urn said,

        March 26, 2012 at 3:17 am

        And who are you, and what is your agenda?

        • Mallie Urn said,

          March 26, 2012 at 3:31 am

          All you’ve said is ‘crush the graham cracker’ and ‘get over it’, the last phrase being a red flag for me always.

          Your blog indicates that you would never give the Howe poem a second glance, so what exactly are finding so awful about the Graham poem? Or is it the poet you find offensive?

        • doubleyouaye said,

          March 26, 2012 at 4:16 am

          I don’t have an agenda. But since you can’t let this thing die, it would appear that you do. Graham’s poetry lacks all that I find fulfilling in poetry: wordplay, imagination, sonics, a sense of wonder, technical skill.

          Maybe you are trying to befriend Graham so that she grant you first place in some new competition?

          • doubleyouaye said,

            March 26, 2012 at 4:33 am

            Howe isn’t my favorite poet, but I do like “What the Living Do” for pretty much all the reasons Thomas cites. I find Graham’s poem pretentious, unimaginative, and somewhat rambling. I certainly don’t want to read it again, and that’s why I agree with it losing to Howe’s piece.

            You are right that I probably wouldn’t include a Howe poem on Ondioline.

            And just to say, Stallings should have won this round. But it’s a game. No use getting upset.

            • Mallie Urn said,

              March 26, 2012 at 4:45 am

              Tell that to Bobby Fischer. 🙂

              Unimaginative? Really? I disagree. But, okay, fine.

            • Mallie Urn said,

              March 26, 2012 at 11:56 am

              My tantrum probably doesn’t really concern you, whomever you are. Apologies. Carry on.

          • Mallie Urn said,

            March 26, 2012 at 4:38 am

            Mind your own biz. This is between the Spectral Committee and the Ref.

            • Mallie Urn said,

              March 26, 2012 at 5:06 am

              Okay, that was RUDE. Mallie’s a rude boy, like the Rihanna song. Take your biz wherever you please. Of course. See what you will find and see like the rest of um.

              You really think Mallie Urn is positioning itself for a win in ‘real’ poetryland contest by defending Graham’s poem on Scarry-it? Surely you jest.

              No. I am protesting the language used to ‘crush’ this poem. I also like the poem quite a lot.

              • Mallie Urn said,

                March 26, 2012 at 11:06 am

                Oh no, actually. Go fuck yourself! You fucking fake retarded bitch.

                • Mallie Urn said,

                  March 26, 2012 at 11:10 am

                  …fly away on a great two-headed alan ginsberg with wings made of apple butter and tufts of the pope’s pubic hair…

                  • Mallie Urn said,

                    March 26, 2012 at 11:11 am

                    beat graham with a baseball bat and piss on her corpse…it’s all about the poetry!!!

                    • Mallie Urn said,

                      March 26, 2012 at 11:28 am

                      Have a panel on it!

                • thomasbrady said,

                  March 26, 2012 at 4:04 pm

                  Nothing worse than a mean drunk…

                  • Yoko Urn said,

                    March 27, 2012 at 4:08 am

                    I wasn’t drunk – just an acute awareness of the academic co-option ritual.

                    • Yoko Urn said,

                      March 27, 2012 at 4:28 am


  2. The Lighter Side said,

    March 26, 2012 at 1:34 am

    (Author’s note: No science was involved in the writing of this essay; nor was there any systematic process of interviews. No, this is based on firm anecdotal evidence, told to me by various poets in various stages of sobriety over the course of several years, as well as my own experiences since my first book appeared in 2008. If you get a book deal you’ll be in for something like what I’m about to describe. It may go a bit better for you. In some cases, it could be worse. But it’s generally something like this.)

    One hears, with some regularity, about how poets would sell scads of books if they just went “out there” to move copies. Now, one does not hear this from publishers, nor from the general public. Sadly, it is poets themselves who entertain such notions–and often in inverse proportion to the amount of stuff they’ve gotten into print. Among many poets, there also seems to exist the subsidiary illusion that when one’s book comes out, all papery and glossy on the cover with a picture and everything, the accolades and public recognition will come. Bullshit. Unless you’ve got a full-time publicist (and most small presses don’t have one of those, let alone individual poets), it’s a slog. And it starts with the book launch.

    The launch goes well, as these things are reckoned, with ten area poets showing up, as well as your sister-in-law who happens to be in town on business. Then there are the seven people who make it from your place of work (of the twenty who said they would), as well as fifteen or so people you know socially. You give away a copy of the book to a local novelist of your acquaintance who launches the book, of course. As well as two representatives from your publisher. Of the thirty-eight people who show, a whopping twenty buy books, while five others plead poverty and say they’ll get back to you–and one of them even does.

    Have a new book out? Get on the radio. Not the top forty station, mind you. The local programming show they run at 10 AM on a Sunday morning on that local station that plays all those godawful pop songs from the 1980s during the week. Someone’s listening, sure. Not a whole mess of people. Probably mostly people who woke up early due to particularly bad hangovers. Maybe one or two will buy your book after hearing you read some pieces on the air. Maybe not. Possibly, even, probably not. Though they may swing by the local independent bookstore where you dropped off some copies of your book, and sort of remember hearing you on the radio and maybe buy a copy. Maybe. In a few cases. If said book store hasn’t already surreptitiously moved your books to that overstuffed “local authors” shelf and failed to inform the bulk of the staff that it and books like it are over there.

    Or you can get yourself booked into a reading as a feature. Provided that the twenty-five-year-old recent MFA from Some Fucking State University who “curates” the series likes your work enough, you get your shot at the mic. Along with assorted friends, mentors, and ex-lovers of the event-runners. And their friends, of whom half will head to the bar when it’s your turn, because you aren’t their friend. And they may ask you to do it again. Maybe. A year-and-a-half-from now, because it’s a monthly reading and the venue owner likes to have them booked well in advance. And a few people will probably buy a copy of your book. Well, maybe they will. At least you can give a copy to the host in something resembling gratitude and eat the costs.

    And if you’re at a reading whose host has some connections, and you hit it off really well, he or she might suggest your name to the local literary festival. Though not for the main slot. They’re flying over Carol Ann Duffy for that, because people have heard of her. No, you’re reading with five other people on Sunday afternoon, a bit after the radio show you appeared on five months before airs. And two of your fellow readers liked your book enough to offer to swap. And perhaps a nice young woman (or nice young man, depending on your gender/sexual orientation) in the audience likes your reading, too, and she (or he, depending on your gender/sexual orientation) might buy the book, and there’s even an outside chance of getting laid, but you’re still talking low sales. (Of the books you swapped, you read the first third of one when you come down with a cold three weeks later, and two years on, you’ll be “meaning to get around to” the other one.) And possibly, someone a bit higher up the food chain, possibly even Ms. Duffy herself, will wander in. Could happen. She’ll tell you she liked your reading and ask you your name, but she was only able to change a ten-pound note in Heathrow and only has a dollar left from the cab ride and can’t buy the book, and besides, she really has to talk to the organizers about something.

    And you might even get a review in a prestigious journal. The journal has a subscription base of 1,800 people, of whom 200 subscribed because they’d heard the thing was highbrow but give it a desultory look-over. Five subscribed online while high. Another 250 are shipped out to university libraries. Some 600 are subscriptions from former and would-be contributors largely looking to see what work of theirs might be appropriate to send in, given what’s been running lately. Thirty subscribers graduated from the same creative writing program as the editor, while another ten are undergraduate chums. Then there are the thirty or so contributors of poems, fiction, and critical articles. The reviewer of your book won’t buy a copy; she has the review copy. The editor might, except that the magazine reviews sixteen or so books of poetry a year, and he knows five of those under review, who take priority. Most of the poets look at the issue to check for typos and to make sure that the poems next to theirs don’t suck. Ditto the fiction writers. Of the seven contributors who read the review, one buys the book reviewed immediately after yours; two decide that your book doesn’t sound like their thing at all, four think they may well buy the book some day, and one actually buys it when you’re booked for a double-feature together nine months later. The subscribers, of the 400 who make it to the review in the back of the magazine, skim the review as a rule, noting the kind of poetry it is. Of these, 146 decide they might be interested, and nine actually buy it (out of the twenty-one who decided they should), one of whom because he lives in the same town as your publisher’s second cousin (who owns a bookstore and actually has your book on the shelf).

    Announcements on Eratosphere, Sonnet Central, the Gazebo, the Critical Poet, PFFA, Poet & Critic, and Dr. Whup-Ass’s Bitch-Ass Poetry Round-Up net you exactly eighty-six messages of congratulation–and about twenty actual sales. Of course, some of that is because on the Sphere, that fuckwit Cantor posts that message about Rhina Espaillat reading somewhere or another in Toronto, and everyone piles on to congratulate her (even though no one congratulating her lives anywhere near Toronto or plans to go there for her reading), and then some newbie trying to get to fifteen posts by whatever means necessary (so that he can post a poem he wrote about hobbits on the crit board) posts a “Wish I could of made it” message on a month-old Carmine Metrics reading announcement, and within two hours of posting, the goddamn thing is halfway down the page with no responses and two hits, which were you checking for typos and Tim Murphy trying to click on the Rhina link but opening your announcement by accident instead, and you have to bump it back up yourself. Which is embarrassing.

    And then, of course, there’s the university reading. Which doesn’t take place in the swank old college downtown, where you went some years ago and a couple members of faculty vaguely remember you. No, you’ve got a friend on the English Faculty of Batshit Community College, an upgraded technical school, half of whose students speak Lithuanian as their first language. But it’s a reading, and you haven’t done very many readings recently—which is why you’ve only sold one book over the past month, and that to an ex-girlfriend (or ex-boyfriend, depending on your gender/sexual orientation) who found you on MySpace when she searched for old flames a few days after she found her husband schtupping her younger sister (switch around pronouns and nouns according to gender/sexual orientation). Though you don’t know about that last bit. Hell, you’d forgotten you even have a MySpace account.

    At any rate, the night of the reading arrives, and it’s the first poetry reading ever held at Batshit Community College. So the dean is there, and your friend and two other members of the English faculty are there (the fourth member is at his daughter’s school play), and five students show up—because your friend has offered his remedial English classes (of three sections of thirty students each) extra credit for turning up. So you do the reading and ask if there are any questions. There are. Or is. A student asks you why you use so many big words. You say you aren’t sure. The students are poor, as are the faculty, so no one buys a book, though you give one to the dean as a goodwill gesture. Your reading is the last poetry reading ever held at Batshit Community College.

    There are, of course, book store readings, generally booked at one of the shrinking number of independent book stores in your area. Most of your friends can’t make it because it’s in the middle of the day, and they have work. Which is fair enough, really. But as you read to an initial crowd of five, some folks do stop and listen. You might sell three or four books.

    As for open mics, they happen frequently in the bigger cities but showing up at an open mike is, to a great degree, self-promotion on the part of each reader (which is to say the overwhelming majority of the audience). And there’s nothing wrong with that per se. But the role of the featured reader (you) is significantly de-emphasized. And as a consequence, the book may sell a few copies if you’re a regular, but don’t expect masses of sales. There may well be none. Open mics aren’t designed to sell books.

    And then, of course, there are the poetry conferences. So, you spend a crapload of money to get to West Chester, Pennsylvania for the big do. Or perhaps apply for a scholarship and get one, meaning you only have to pay $400 for the damn thing instead of $1,000. Oh, and you still need to get there. (Repeat for Sewanee, Bread Loaf, or wherever.) You get your books placed in the bookstore—and are promptly astounded by how many fellow poets of your acquaintance have books and chapbooks. You spend your allotted $50 in one day and from there, swap four or five books with folks who heard you have a new book out (though it’s been nearly a year now). Maybe four sell in the book store.

    All of the above nets thirty-eight sales by my count, out of a first book print run of 500 or 1,000. Sure, one repeats the process in all of these cases, coming up with pretexts on Facebook, Twitter, or wherever to remind those who might be idly surfing the web in the middle of the night that the thing exists (even while reckoning with no particular exactitude the moment where the gentle reminders will become tri-state-killing-spree-inducingly annoying). Sales will creep into the triple digits and, if one sticks with it, crawl up from there, much like a wounded cockroach trying to find that crack in the kitchen wall before it dies. One would like to say that it’s worth it, that at least the book is out there—and, provided that a few people who live at high altitudes buy it, your genius, such as it is, will survive the polar ice caps melting and the collapse of the power grid when the fossil fuels run out.

    But the thing is, it’s horseshit. One should do this stuff because it’s profitable (cue uproarious laughter) or because it’s fun. Perhaps the tens of thousands of MFA candidates would add a third category—because it leads to tenure-track jobs. But there’s so damn much of it that it stops being fun far too often—there are so many poets with so many books on so many presses swarming so many internet radio sites, readings, conferences, and all that other horseshit—mainly for “exposure”—that we’re all a bit fatigued. But what to do about it?

    If you’re seeking a tenure-track job in this economic climate, May God Have Mercy On Your Soul. For the rest of you poets out there, slow down! The book is less of a game-changer than you think it will be. Make sure—sure!—it’s about the work and not some horseshit prestige (and by “prestige,” I mean doing that local radio show that thirty people catch at 6 AM—you’re on your way, baby!). And as for the presses, can we all agree that book contests are a cynical, corruption-prone disaster? I’m not talking about the Foetry stuff necessarily, but rather the number of books funded by the contest’s also-rans that sink without a trace because, fuck it, no one has a particular stake in moving them. Fewer books from presses that could then spend more time promoting what they do publish wouldn’t fix the glut, but it might alleviate it. Perhaps fewer publication opportunities would even cut down on Po-Biz over-publication more generally. Well, one can hope where the latter bit is concerned.

    But I wouldn’t promise that, and I’ll wrap up by noting that my own Across the Grid of Streets is still available in both hardcover and paperback, and…never mind.

    • Fred said,

      March 26, 2012 at 4:29 am

      Ha. Ha. Ha. This is funny/depressing. I can’t see myself doing any of these things. But not because I’m too good for it or anything like that, it just doesn’t make sense to me. I’m too shy and awkward to self-promote like a pro and I hate giving readings. On top of that I’m not an academic.

      Basically, I’m not even really a real writer. Just some dude that reads Scarriet.

      • Mallie Urn said,

        March 26, 2012 at 11:20 am

        Fred! Learn to be faker, more pedantic, and write WORSE poetry, and be sure to make it to AWP, STAT!!!! Then you’ll be super-top-notch, promise.

    • thomasbrady said,

      March 26, 2012 at 5:20 pm

      To be a poet, you must be poetic, which means you must be langorous, insouciant, lazy, and beautiful.

      The only exception is if you write criticism. (see T.S. Eliot, Edgar Poe) Then you may be ink-stained and busy.

      If you are merely “a poet” trying to push your “poetry book” in “book stores” and “readings, etc” you are doing way too much work for no purpose. Stop this at once.

      When Pound said, “Make it new,” he had in mind not writing something new, but new in terms of P.R. But the boat called New has already sailed. Modernism did that to death. The novelty of ‘no punctuation’ has been used up. You can’t think of “new” in terms of Modernism anymore.

      Banned books are good and obscenity trials even better. Think: Lawrence, Joyce, Ginsberg. But this ship may have sailed, too. See “new” above.

      Bukowski sort of falls into this category, because his poetry was about his life with whores.

      Being a good poet who can write poems *immediately* understood by the public helps. Billy Collins is a good poet. John Keats is a good poet. Can you write 20 or 30 poems as good as poets like this? If you can’t, forget it.

      Remember, to be a poet only, you must be lazy. You cannot care about the world. Other people must do the work for you. The world must come to you.

      • Yoko Urn said,

        March 27, 2012 at 1:39 am

        Tom, you are obviously being somewhat dry here. But I do think it’s true that if you’re a “langorous, insouciant, lazy, and beautiful” poet, and your only goal is to write 20 – 30 good-to-great poems, it’s probably best to stay away from the busy, careerist poets, or they will murder you.

        But that doesn’t mean you have to be Bukowski (though, sometimes, late at night, when no one’s looking, you are), and that doesn’t mean you don’t love the inky busyness of criticism.

        • thomasbrady said,

          March 27, 2012 at 1:49 am


          Excuse me! Who are you to say what I am late at night sometimes????

          I’m always asleep by 10 for my beauty rest.


          • March 27, 2012 at 9:49 am

            “A partial solution to the problem of how to avoid trouble at the hands of roughs would have been never to go out at a time when decent people were in their beds. Decency, however, must be an even more exhausting state to maintain than its opposite. Those who succeed seem to need a stupefying amount of sleep. Even by ten o’clock at night the streets of all the slum districts I ever lived in were empty of every living thing but toughs.” — from The Naked Civil Servant by Quentin Crisp

  3. Des said,

    March 26, 2012 at 5:33 am

    ‘Fred’ the plasterer, an average Joe reading modernist gobbledee gook to unwind after a day hauling walls into a finished state you tell all your pals on the building site about, hey, Joe?

    Or fellow amateurs; shy, awkward and dreaming of switching from telesales & personell, to marketing engineer, four years parallell study and eventually, a job in tenured poetry. Whose poetry remains unheard by disinterested consumers on the lines filled with philistines, persuading customers to hear poetry read at the other end, dude.

    ‘Fred’, why not start by playing a positive and rewarding game. Be a winner instead of a loser all the time. Follow the advice of the numerous members reading and writing the final report into Fred Uninteresting: Committee of Knowledge and its Official Final Form. (F.U.C.K.O.F.F); due to decide your fate immediately. Yes, you’ve to fuck off Fred. The committee thought you were to formless and boring, too obviously the fraudulent creation of judge/s you one singular charlatan with no genuine contestants or authentically competitive free for all championship energy about you. FO Fred, wazzep?

    • Mallie Urn said,

      March 26, 2012 at 5:48 am

      You’re disgusting.

    • thomasbrady said,

      March 26, 2012 at 5:25 pm

      What set you off, no doubt, Des, was when Fred wrote, “I read Scarriet.”

      Don’t you understand, Des? That means they read you.

      Scarriet’s your friend, Des. Relax.

  4. Mallie Urn said,

    March 26, 2012 at 5:54 am

    I want to have nothing to do with people like you.

  5. Mallie Urn said,

    March 26, 2012 at 5:59 am

    You’re the fraud. And, yes, vile frauds ‘win’. All the time, in fact.

  6. Fred said,

    March 26, 2012 at 6:08 am

    Yes, Des reminds me of why I’m happy not to be a part of that scene. imagine twenty of these in a room. I’ve been in that room. It’s simply not worth it.

    I have an ambition, but I don’t think I’m even playing the same game he is.

    I completely disagree with his the things he said about Bernstein and Muldoon. I was hoping he was joking (???)…I don’t “relate” to his thinking at all – and this is a great joy to me.

  7. Mallie Urn said,

    March 26, 2012 at 6:36 am

    Yes, Desmond’s a product of the cutthroat world of academia + trying to score points with the proles so he can push more books with his tough guy irish working class persona. (He actually despises proles, is an ugly-hearted snob, and -ist of various unsavory kinds.)

    We should probably go back to ignoring his taunts. It’s not worth it.

  8. Des said,

    March 26, 2012 at 7:45 am

    Two together addressing one. The puppets are displeased with this cowardly and ugly-hearted snob who hates the proles and is something unspeakable, ‘we’ Wallie ‘urm’, think you got it wrong again, you and FO Fred are plastic transparents of the other onanist, your creator wrestling with the ‘you’ dilemma.

    Rubbish Fake Voices 0 – ME 1

    Executive Operator All American Page Poem 2012 Committee 5 – Scareyat Yawn 2

    • J.E.U. said,

      March 26, 2012 at 8:05 am

      You! Why must you be so damn mean?

      • noochinator said,

        March 26, 2012 at 9:38 am

        Des is Des,
        He’ll make you rage or chuckle—
        I’m certainly grateful to him
        For recommending Knuckle:


        • Mallie Urn said,

          March 26, 2012 at 10:34 am

          Des is a bitter hateful loser who brings the smell of shit and sulphur to every affair and event. No matter what or who he is. It doesn’t matter.

          • Mallie Urn said,

            March 26, 2012 at 12:22 pm

            No, don’t be mad at Des. He’s also a bit jealous of Mallie, it seems. And who can blame him.

            What strange insulting intimations from a man who has never read a word Mallie has ever written.

    • Mallie Urn said,

      March 26, 2012 at 11:07 am

      You lose, Des. Nine degrees down in hell.

    • Mallie Urn said,

      March 26, 2012 at 11:38 am

      I think I know who Desmond is now. Ha ha.

      Yes, ah, of course…Wot an Epiphany! I fucking hate you. And I’ve told you so several times now, in several different ways, over the last few years. And I meant it.

    • Mallie Urn said,

      March 26, 2012 at 2:49 pm

      Why don’t you go harass the people at the Guardian some more (or maybe the HTML ppl?) I’m chuckling!

      Or maybe you should just put a bullet through your brain?

      Good idea, I’d say.

  9. Mallie Urn said,

    March 26, 2012 at 9:31 am

    I’m sad, and I’m leaving.

    • Mallie Urn said,

      March 26, 2012 at 11:40 am

      No, I’m not. Because now I know who Des is, and it doesn’t matter.

      • Mallie Urn said,

        March 26, 2012 at 11:52 am

        Woo, Charles Bernstein is so great, Des! What a guy. A great showman. Top-notch. Very important work…

        Female poets are only kind of sort okay when you’re trying to fuck them. Otherwise, who would even bother reading them? Losers, the lot of them (except my friendsies at AWP!) But I have become accustomed to name checking Alice Notley. It’s only right.

  10. Mallie Urn said,

    March 26, 2012 at 11:59 am

    Ha ha ha. Well, isn’t that rich?

    The question IS, does Desmond know Mallie?

    No, Desmond thinks you’re a puppet.

    Well, you are kind of a puppet.

    But not his puppet.

  11. Mallie Urn said,

    March 26, 2012 at 12:07 pm

    Do you know how many dudes I know who have LITERALLY, unembarrassedly, said they do not really read female poets?

    So that leaves other female poets to read you… AH HA HA HAHA HAAHHAA

    That’s why you have to leave this behind.

    Tom’s right, and Tom’s wrong. But when Tom is right he’s right.


    And Tom’s not Desmond?

    I’m pretty sure.


  12. Mallie Urn said,

    March 26, 2012 at 12:59 pm

    It’s misogynist closet-case night here at Scarriet – and Desmond Swords gets the Top Prize for his top-notch dehumanising attack.

    • Mallie Urn said,

      March 26, 2012 at 1:18 pm

      Desmond, I’m really starting to think that all you people, and I use that word lightly, all of you gossips and sociopaths, should go into a room and shoot and stab each other until it’s done. I would like that. And I think it’s only right.

  13. Mallie Urn said,

    March 26, 2012 at 1:27 pm

    I’m very glad that I made a *specific* point of answering your letter honestly. It was obviously well-deserved. And I shouldn’t have put up with your fony nonsense as long as I did.

    Eat a nice big stake, brah.

  14. Mallie Urn said,

    March 26, 2012 at 1:32 pm

    We all know what the “source’ of this all is. But that doesn’t mean you weren’t total shit from the very beginning. It’s actually a relief to not play along with it.

  15. Mallie Urn said,

    March 26, 2012 at 1:42 pm

    Desmond Swords : 31.5 Yoko Urn : 111

  16. Mallie Urn said,

    March 26, 2012 at 2:51 pm

    My name is Allyssa Wolf and I need help. I am obsessed with Joshua Clover and Arianna Reines… I think the world revolves around this nefarious cabal.

  17. Mallie Urn said,

    March 26, 2012 at 2:53 pm

    Tom, I KNOW you are Joshua Clover! ADMIT IT!!!

  18. Mallie Urn said,

    March 26, 2012 at 3:01 pm

    I am some psychopath on the internet. See above^

  19. Mallie Urn said,

    March 26, 2012 at 3:02 pm

    Another DRUNK psychopath, too.

  20. Mallie Urn said,

    March 26, 2012 at 3:04 pm

    Hey get in on the action, sociopath!!! Mental patient. Drunk. Shitty fucking poet. Old man who doesn’t understand the internet, or know how to read…Shall I go on?

  21. Mallie Urn said,

    March 26, 2012 at 3:08 pm

    Fat old man sitting around on the internet scanning for new shitty poets to have phone sex with…You’re all such a fucking joke to me.

    Kill yourself. Seriously.

  22. Mallie Urn said,

    March 26, 2012 at 3:10 pm

    Just go away, old man drunk poets, fake awp bitches. Hey, I’ve got a great idea! Go the fuck away. Not your biz. Not at all.

  23. Mallie Urn said,

    March 26, 2012 at 3:11 pm

    Old bitter dudes who never got laid, who got blocked 500 times before you got the message. talk about poetry or Go away.


  24. Mallie Urn said,

    March 26, 2012 at 3:18 pm

    I told you BOTH, oh–wait ALL, to kiss my ass a thousand times.

    Tom’s the only non-poet I’d even speak to. Sorry that bothers EverYone SO VERY MUCH…

    Retarded drunks need help. Of all sexes and creeds, and mental capacities…But you’re not going to get it here. So mind your own fucking biz.

  25. Mallie Urn said,

    March 26, 2012 at 3:25 pm

    hey, sherlock! come on back, man…I want to talk to you bout something dude…

    haha not really.

    anonymous psycho fat drunk 3.6 yoko urn : 87

  26. FMallie said,

    March 26, 2012 at 4:08 pm

    Excellent focus, the ventriliquistic possibilities are limitless. Puppetry is Umallie gurning twisted ott tripe. Madness marching melodiously foward. At the end of a desk is a paperweight/candle and they (the subsumed, unconscious YOU!!!) are gazing into its flame. It is midday. They have the curtains drawn because natural light hinders their lullabying and recovery from exposure by ‘bitter old dudes who never got laid’ ‘kiss my ass a thousand times’ welcome to the critical debate, conversation on ‘retarded drunks’ ‘mind your own fucking biz’ ‘talk about poetry or Go away.’

    Lidl ern, get over yourselves, send out the judges and get this show back on the subject of poetry, pretend ‘I’ behind the poor-done-to passive-aggressive victim routine, is a fully mature printed ‘character’ pleading and swearing and paranoids gonna let the cat outta dibak yug otta vink a booh tit, what sound a letter makes when correctly read by the public FMallie identified as such. You need a break lidl ern, why not speak about E.A. be my judge, do, and be respectful to all the extremely carefully crafted and creative representitives judging on the authorial committee deciding the public outcome of these head-to-head bouts. Where the only rule is, there are no rules. A free for all poetry-athon like the brilliant March Madness I am so happy to be involved in after three years a shy spectator. The golden apple from silver fruits of a sixth grade wisdom, let it out teji, c’mon, selflesness itself sharing.

    • thomasbrady said,

      March 26, 2012 at 5:29 pm


      You sound like Woodman with your silly objections to March Madness.

      Don’t you get it? It’s just a way to talk about poetry and poets.

      Don’t get yourself in a twist about all this.


    • Yoko Urn said,

      March 28, 2012 at 7:39 am

      Desmond, I don’t think you’re Irish at all. As the little clicky-link from your name(s) indicates, you are from Iowa. Typical.

      • Yoko Urn said,

        March 28, 2012 at 8:25 am

        Apparently it’s the same cunt-for-brains who implored me “get over it” now suggests I “get over myself.”

        You were over five minutes ago. Bye.

        • Yoko Urn said,

          March 28, 2012 at 8:27 am

          I’m having a panel on it!

          • Yoko Urn said,

            March 28, 2012 at 9:32 am

            A side note for our American readers:

            here in Jolly Old England we use cunt lavishly.

            Ah, it must be getting late here…no civility for miles! But do pardon the Violence Tom. My fanatic heart, blah, blah, blah, and so forth…

            • noochinator said,

              March 28, 2012 at 10:16 am

              Yes, for us Yanks, “the c word”
              Gets wads in proverbial panties—
              P’rhaps from the days when fem’nists
              Issued diktats in the mad nineteen-seventies.

            • thomasbrady said,

              March 28, 2012 at 5:43 pm

              I coont agree with you more!

              • Yoko Urn said,

                March 28, 2012 at 6:01 pm

                Bye then.

                • Des said,

                  March 28, 2012 at 7:23 pm

                  Bye yoko/nooch/tom

                  • Yoko Urn said,

                    March 28, 2012 at 7:40 pm

                    Farewell, Noochie, Coochie, Tom, Tomas, Thomas, Yoko, Mallie, FMallie, Shemallie, Graves, W.A., All Support, Des, Desmond, David, diktats, panties, Paul…everyone. Fare thee well, til next time, bye-bye.

                    What err happened to David?

                    • David said,

                      March 30, 2012 at 4:16 pm

                      I’m still lurking at the periphery. I don’t have much to add. I’m hoping that our kind host might soon revive the debate on modernism vs romanticism. Perhaps March Madness is a prelude?

                    • thomasbrady said,

                      March 30, 2012 at 6:48 pm

                      March Madness is a prelude, David, but also it gives Scarriet a chance to engage with contemporary works. Every ‘game’ contains at least one ‘lesson.’

                      I hope you jump in more often. Always enjoy your observations.

                  • Yoko Urn said,

                    March 29, 2012 at 2:02 am

                    Thank you, Des & the Desmonds–
                    Your presence has been illuminating.
                    Yoko’s proud of the work she’s done
                    With the truth of beauty you’ve been hating.

          • Alan Cordle said,

            March 29, 2012 at 3:09 pm

            I wish I could ‘like’ comments here.

  27. Des said,

    March 27, 2012 at 6:31 am

    Tom, are you on drugs? I am not FMallie, FMallie is another person writing their own shit, you know, like ‘Fred’ and ‘nooch’ and all the other many people here.

    You are trying too hard. Take a break..

    • thomasbrady said,

      March 27, 2012 at 11:22 am

      “I am he as you are he as you are me and we are all together” is from my favorite song, Des. What can I say?

  28. Mollie Morn said,

    March 27, 2012 at 7:52 am

    Yes, that must be the dance-move called ‘the half-desmond’. Kind of preferable to the compleat Desmond.

    Why does he hate me so much? I can’t stop myself from returning it.

  29. Yoko Urn said,

    March 28, 2012 at 5:59 pm

    That’s an “interesting” double-bind;
    What woman has impunity?
    Jacqueline Handey’s Deep Thoughts
    From the gated community?

    Oh brother, a fourth wave
    Is long overdue.
    That is all I have to say
    To you.

    • Yoko Urn said,

      March 28, 2012 at 6:04 pm

      ^This was supposed to go under this:

      “Yes, for us Yanks, “the c word”
      Gets wads in proverbial panties—
      P’rhaps from the days when fem’nists
      Issued diktats in the mad nineteen-seventies.”

      That Tom coont agree with more.

      Bye bye.

  30. thomasbrady said,

    March 28, 2012 at 8:48 pm

    G’nite Ladies, g’nite sweet ladies, g’nite…

    • Anonymous said,

      March 29, 2012 at 1:19 am

      I hope all will be well. We must be patient: but I
      cannot choose but weep, to think they should lay him
      i’ the cold ground. My brother shall know of it:
      and so I thank you for your good counsel. Come, my
      coach! Good night, ladies; good night, sweet ladies;
      good night, good night.

  31. Alan Cordle said,

    March 28, 2012 at 9:46 pm

    Wow. Everyone’s back. Hi?

  32. David said,

    March 30, 2012 at 4:19 pm

    That last comment was in reply to Yoko’s question.

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