First of all, I have to admit that Denson's interpretation of my mathemaku sequence made me laugh out loud. I was never in the Boy Scouts but he's right about the touch of boyscout sentimentality in "6a," which I hope doesn't ruin it. I enjoyed the two efforts to treat the three poems in the sequence as simultaneous equations, which I didn't intend them to be taken as, but which they are. Someday I hope to intend this idea, which should lead to something interesting. I of course delighted in Pete Lee's encomium--and in his and at least one other's underscoring my debt to Cummings, which is a large one. I didn't approve of Lee's opinion of Bennett's poem, though, and was quite upset that Bennett got more unfavorable critiques than I did.

Speaking of Bennett, I found his general take of what I'm trying to do in my mathemaku reassuring, for he's exactly right. Probably my favorite critique of the mathemaku, though, was Dan Fleisch- mann's-- because he picked up on a few specifics I hoped would come across, and did, for him--the use of the perpendicular lines (which in math indicate that the quantity within is to be given an "absolute," or positive value), and the division of one by Persephone (although Dan had it as Persephone divided by one). And his impression of the haiku as being too "formy" I take as a good reminder to continue trying to avoid giving that impression, for it's a flaw one risks when doing poems like these. My hope is that with familiarity, the forminess of the mathemaku will fade.

I also appreciated Na'imah Tariq's immersion in my mathemaku. She got the kind of images and feelings I would hope the sequence would convey to a sensitive reader without full awareness of my admittedly obscure use of math. I respect the honesty of those who admitted not knowing how to grapple with my sequence but wish they'd tried, anyway. I also wish a few of the writers had been less perfunctory, and that a few earlier contributors--Mr. Leonard, for instance, and P. Hughes--had contributed to the discussion. In general, though, I appreciated the feedback, and thank all who participated.

Now to my critiques, starting with one about the shortest of this issue's five specimens, Pete Lee's "povetry," which I was much relieved to find I liked a lot after his good words about me. Two things about it struck me: that its "impoverished" spelling is an infra-verbal "juxtaphor" (or implicit metaphor) for what it means, and that it is "poverty" in the process of metamorphosizing into "poetry." Or vice versa. Either way--both ways--it works for me.

I like the imagery of "Eagle at the River," especially the contrast of a rushing river eagles can't see their reflections in to "Musical streams/ And lakes of songbirds" that (I infer) they can see their reflections in. The last three lines, "Soaring in the present,/ The past dripping/ From their beaks" are strong--but I don't understand their connection to what has gone before in the poem. "Slaking" doesn't seem properly used here, and while I like the image of a hustling river, it seems inappropriate, since hustling seems kind of "bouncy" compared to running "like a fugitive." This poem throbs with potential but remains too vague for me. I want to know how the eagles get from river to streams and lakes, and what the past and present has to do with that. I see that they might be rising from the river, and remembering pleasant streams and lakes--yes, then it would be river- water "dripping/ From their beaks" which has become water from the streams and lakes in their memories . . . So it does have a coherence. But that coherence needs a little refining, I think, and there has to be some hint of why the river makes the eagles remember the streams and lakes, if indeed it does.

          Eagles at the River

          Frothing, mouth agape,
          The river hustles down--
          To slaking eagles
          Who cannot
          See their reflections
          In its water
          That runs like a fugitive.
          The eagles contemplate
          Musical streams
          And lakes of songbirds.
          They rise--
          Soaring in the present,
          The past dripping
          From their beaks.

"Reason #36" is energetic and tantalizing, and there's a weird echo of Edwin Arlington Robinson in it, and intimations of T.S. Eliot, too, but wherefore and wherefrom these obscure guilts and/or fears, and the monsters-under-the-bed childhood locale? The rhymes suggest a story rather than some tortured attempt to express some strange psychological state, but no comprehensible story comes into being for me. I frankly don't get this poem, and don't know whose fault that is, mine or its author.

          Reason #36

          "I am in the closet, under the bed,"
          a voice repeats inside your head.
          "Be quiet! Out!" you still recite.
          Further "I am in the Shredded Wheat,
          in the driving rain,
          a hungry child
          a beetle crunched on the windowpane,
          hot breath upon your nape in the night."
          "Desist! Be gone! Remove from my life,
          at once!
          For good!"

          So you argue, protest, pleasd, endure,
          supply Ten Reasons Why,
          then Twenty-Five Why Not,
          And yet, and yet; still ...

          You change your address,
          change your shoes,
          exhange your feckless way of life
          for defensible means and modes
          that others come to know you by
          and some, a few, approve.
          You change your hair to a waxed punk spike,
          impale yourself on the spinning world
          like a unicorn,
          form misdirected spite,
          then desist and cool on out
          and rinse away all fear and rage
          and smile, just smile.
          You smile and smile for quite a while,
          are smiling still
          (so posterity perceives).

          "God!" you grin to the ceaseless rain
          rinsing beetle bits off of windowpanes.
          "God!" you exposit, again and again,
          to doubts from bed- and closet-land
          and notions still more contraband.
          God, you lie there, one on One,
          at last grown smug and mute and numb
          as a Latin pun.

          They find you lying still
          and drape you all in black
          and henceforth you will nothing lack
          or doubt, much.
          The bed creaks once.
          The closet swings ajar;
          a little voiceinside reminds:
          "Out."
          And out you go.
          Goodbye!

          Beetle, bootle, brittle, pique,
          something must lurk in the Shredded Wheat
          that turns sheer crunch to soggy All,
          assertiveness sprinkled and rinsed and minced
          till blown away in the driving wind.

          Reason #36, or nothing.
          nothing much at all.

"A Sham," by Heather Lowe, is an odd mixture of virtues and flaws:

          We walked, both dressed, in the hot thick dry sand
          his shirt threadbare
          his mind was too
          I knew he was going mad
          he knew I knew           but we walked together as we had done for five years
          blackbirds circled above like inverted arrows
          mocking us
          we were far from home--so far
          I had hoped the sun's warmth would calm him
          it was, instead, a branding iron

          When we reached the shore
          I saw a struggling bee in a pool of sea water
          left behind by the receding tide
          I motioned to him
          I wanted to save it
          "You see--we'll just lift him out to dry land"
          an old seqweed leaf seemed the perfect transport
          the bee lifted its legs gingerly over a cracked rivulet
          testing its wet wings
          bent over, though, I was startled to see his reflection
          he stood behind me
          hands stretched out around the back of my neck
          I wasn't frightened but I did realize then
          it was my stupid sting driving his soul into madness
          and I watched the silly bee wobble, limp, and
          finally buzz off
          But I couldn't follow it or the horizon
          for the tears in my eyes.

Except for its lineation, it's pure prose. The bee episode is nicely observed and authentic-feeling, and the sun, beach and blackbirds make an effective setting. But the man's having a "threadbare" mind didn't go, for me, with his being on the verge of madness, the one implying emptiness, the other derangement. Where the poem really goes wrong, though, is in the speaker's realization that "it was my stupid sting driving his soul into madness." We have high drama here, but it's unprepared for. The woman decides she's been cruel to the man, but has she? We have no way of knowing. Moreover, she comes to this conclusion because bees have stings, not because of anything she finds herself doing that makes her realize how she's mistreating her victim. There's a lot of well- expressed passion in this poem but most of it seems arbitrary.

Gah, now for Richard Kostelanetz's set of infra-verbal pwoermds. I say, "Gah," because Richard is a pal of mine whose work I generally like, but I'm afraid I didn't get much from his words here, amd which follow:

               TheRapists
               SweeTheArt
               SerViceMan
               ReSpiRatOr
               RePutAtIon
               RedEdIcAte
               ReappRaise
               PurChaSing
               OveRexPose
               EnTerpRise
               EdItOrsHip
               DiscoURage
               DeterMined
               DeLiveRing

I once saw "TheRapists" all by itself on a page, and liked it a lot. Humorous and apt. But none of the other specimens here are anywhere near as effective as "TheRapists"--although I like de "live ring," and the amusing idea of "U" in a "Rage" at a "Disco." And I can empathize with someone purring and singing while "PurCha- Sing" something. But "ReSpiRatOr," "RePutAtIon" and the other "Re" words do nothing for me. That the word "Raise" is raised out of "ReappRaise" is ever so mildly clever, but since "Reapp" is meaningless . . . oops, now I see "reap"--so it's not so bad after all. Ha, I swear this wasn't planned, it happened as I was typing: I reappraised the word and reap(ed) raise(d) appreciation. But I continue to consider most of the words on this list thin. Richard has done much better. So endeth mine appraisals this time around.