Hey, I just found out that, Patricia Smith, one of our upcoming faculty members at this summer's Frost Place teaching conference, has been nominated for a National Book Award.

What other news can I offer?

1. I went to the Bangor Goodwill the other day and acquired a first edition of Naked Lunch for $1.99.

2. My son went to his first Red Sox game on Tuesday and watched his heroes get trampled into the dust yet managed to have fun anyway. When half the fans leave in a huff, all the peons in the "cheap" seats get to move up to those expensive empty seats next to the field and cheer on the towel guys running back and forth among the relief pitchers.

3. I discovered another poem to add to my bad-tempered poetry collection, although perhaps "gloomy self-pity" is the more accurate descriptor. Why is Tudor spelling so enjoyable? Apparently, the poet did spend some time in prison--one time for brawling, one time for being Anne Boleyn's "neighbor and admirer" (in the circumspect words of the Cambridge Guide to English Literature).

Poem 168, from the Minor Manuscripts

Sir Thomas Wyatt

Syghes ar my foode, drynke are my teares;

Clynking of fetters suche musycke wolde crave;

Stynke and close ayer away my lyf wears:

Innocencie is all the hope I have.

Rayne, wynde, or wether I iudge by myne eares.

Mallice assaulted that rightiousnes should have:

Sure I am, Brian, this wounde shall heale agayne,

But yet, alas, the scarre shall styll remayne.

 I don't know why, but I'm guessing this is the hangover poem written after the bar fight. ("Dear Brian, I didn't start anything. It was all your fault. . . .")