The Best American Poetry

Stocks Versus Bonds

There comes a time in every young person's life, when he (or she) must choose: stocks or bonds. I have chosen stocks. Why? In one sentence: Because stocks rock, while bonds are boring. Bonds are predictable. That is, of course, their appeal to "widows and orphans" (Wall Street parlance for conservative investors of all stripes). There is one main fact you need to know about bonds, other than that they are a safe investment vehicle with a fixed rate of return, and that is that the price of a bond goes up or down in inverse relation to the movement (up or down) of interest rates. The price fluctuation is minimal, and you will sleep well knowing that a portion of your portfolio is in bonds (in a bond fund or a so-called blended fund like Fidelity Balanced Fund or Vanguard Wellington).

That said, I reiterate: bonds are boring because they are safe, and stocks are exciting, because of the added risk and added potential for profit. There is an element of the gamble in stocks, though f you're smart and you do your homework, the odds are far better than in casino or track. Stocks are also more complicated, and that counts in their favor as well: the study of a stock's fundamentals -- such as its price-earnings ratio -- can become addictive.

What are price-earnings ratios and why do they matter? The answer is coming!

This Week's Critic's Pick

Chocolate! Read about it here.

--sdh

Victory Day Parade in Moscow!

It's been a long time since there was a good old-fashioned military parade in Moscow's Red Square but at last the drought has been broken! This video has everything: gigantic dildo-like missiles, vintage "Bear" turboprop bombers, medal-bedecked geezers from WW2, pretty girls -- PLUS Vladimir Putin and his boy Medvedev or whatever his name is!

Homosexual or Therapy (by Nicole Santalucia)

Nicole Santalucia took part in a downtown (New York) reading last night and made a big hit with the crowd. Here's a poem she read: 

Homosexual or Therapy

He is cute and pink and large and an elephant in the corner of the room

I want to be an elephant too and pink or purple as long as I am compatible to

             that one

in the corner of the room and I will do anything it takes to become an elephant

and anything it takes to get him to have sex with me

I’ll mind my business when he wants to play with the other boy elephants

I’ll hide my drinking habits and let him take advantage of me

I’ll stop sleeping with my brother and let him sleep with my brother if that’s

            what he wants

I won’t tell him I know he’s an elephant I won’t tell him that I want to be an

            elephant too

-- Nicole Santalucia

Poetic term of the day -- May 9, 2008

PROLEPSIS (proh-LEP-sus): The application of an adjective to a noun in anticipation of the action of the verb, as in, "while plows turn the furrowed field."

above: Hilda Doolittle

http://www.poeticbyway.com/glossary.html

A Broad, Abroad (installment, the seventh)

I've been slack, lax, and spattering about my posting duties. Such is the rock and roll lifestyle, you know. In my room at the moment, a Time Life Best-Loved Country Songs of All Time 30-minute paid advertisement on the telly, an empty packet of prawn-flavored crisps and a the remnants of a Tesco sandwich at my feet.

And I'm beat.

This was, effectively, the last show for me. I have tickets for a show in Berlin in a couple of weeks, but that's like the Porto after the great meal. I'm damn near saturated. I've undone the metaphoric top button of my jeans (and only the metaphoric button, Brother. I'm a good girl, me!).

I call this photo "If this ain't rock and roll, then I dunno what is."

(I also call portions of this set of photos: "Jill fucking around with the sepia settings on her new camera.")

Got into London on Tuesday evening, found my hotel, went and slept me but good. On Wednesday, I did the thing I usually do, which is find the venue and camp the fuck out.

London's Hammersmith Apollo.

Camping out with Caroline and Ingrid.

I met Caroline and her friend Susan-- not pictured--in Glasgow, but I've seen Caroline at other shows before. Ingrid I only met yesterday, but she is great fun. Originally from South Africa, she's been in London for two years. The band she most follows around is My Chemical Romance. I sold her my spare ticket for tonight's show.

Last night's show was problem-plagued. The sound was off in a wild way, Nick was having trouble hearing the band and so the cues were all amok, and there were some really obnoxious fuckers pouring beer over people and trying to press towards the barrier.

A sound tech called Davros asked me if I wanted to stay for a drink last night. I went backstage with him, talked to some of the other roadies (an apparently outdated term), but because of all the problems with the sound, he was too tied up to take me and Ingrid (who was with me) to the party. So Ingrid and I called it night, sans drink. It was ok. I've been very worried about giving off the appearence of tacky. I may be low-rent, but I damn sure ain't tacky.

Tactless perhaps, but not tacky! (And yes, that's Emily D. emblazoned across my bosom. Under the picture it reads "Suck My Dickinson." Appropriate rock and roll attire!)

Mostly, tho, I hate the idea of being in folks' way. And being thought of as someone who's just out to try and do naughty things just to get close to rock stars-- not my scene.

But: Me do loves me rock stars, of course!

Ok, so I went back to the hotel last night, slept, woke, went to the venue today. I was so early, that I even had time to get a much-needed haircut, which I procured for 15 quid at Hammersmith Station. I haven't wanted to get one in Zurich as that would require speaking German aloud and vaguely well, which I have, of late, not been quite able to do. Thus, I submitted my mop-top to the able talents of Gilly Scissor-Hands, a Kosovar ex-pat bride-to-be and thus spent a fair 30 minutes of waiting time, never to be waited again.

It was a lovely day, a sunny day. The wait went well and quick. Sandra, the Belgian lady, was back for this show. We all got in and made it to the barrier. And speaking of Barry-ers, the swoon-worthy Barry Adamson was on again these first two London nights.

Ladies and Gentlemen, the cooler than cool Barry Adamson.

And then there was Nick.

I like this picture because it shows him as the holy man he is. Or, er, sumthin'.

The show was insanely good. I felt all melty and loose and lucid and gooey when it was over. I've completely lost my voice, I screamed so fervently. And my calves ache from dancing. All the sound problems from the previous night got fixed, and the show did what a rock show is supposed to do, which is to transport you to a place beyond all real worry. It was, to be sure, sublime.

The sound tech from the night before caught up with me tonight again. Asked if I wanted a drink. And this being my last night in London, and me being caught up in the rolling and the rocking, I shrugged and said why the hell not? And in short order I-- me, little ole', a nobody, a yokel, a 36-year-old jobless teenager, a good and godly choirgirl-- got whisked up to the afterparty. Wherewith I shared 2 JB and Cokes with soundtech and, ahem, the band. Nick wasn't there. But everyone else was. It was accidental and unexpected. And I had a blast.

A damn blast.

And that, Dearhearts, is how it's done.

--
*** Apologies for the liberal peppering of this post with the F bomb. It's the music, Baby. And possibly the London water.

Looking for Gold with Heather McHugh...tonight (by Jenny Factor)

A few months ago, I went on a search for meaningful ambiguity. I held pages to the light. I read upside down in the dark. I got lost in the Cave of Celan, and rounded the Cape of William Empson (check out 7 Types of Ambiguity—a 1930 typologic classic). I separated Opacity from Obscurity, and made a Pass at some meek, mindful word-maven maidens who were waiting for epiphany on the sea cliff above the shore. (More on this journey some other time.)

In the December 2007 issue of Poetry Magazine, Heather McHugh winked at me, letting me know she'd been on the same treasure hunt. She wrote:

As soon as I detect the sign of the x at work, I'm near a buried treasure...You (the poet) make the mark of the x because to elaborate—to literate—beyond that mark would diminish its meaning...As an artist, I'm likely to love the x better than the gold.

If you're looking for treasure in Los Angeles tonight, you might want to set sail for the Armand Hammer Museum in Westwood. Heather McHugh will be reading there at 7p.m. Her appearance is co-sponsored by the UCLA Office of Cultural and Recreational Affairs, the Friends of English, the W Hotel, and several other terrific organizations.

Hammer Web Site:   www.hammer.ucla.edu
Hammer Information Line:  310.443.7000
10899 Wilshire Boulevard, Los Angeles, CA 90024

More Martinis

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The first Martini I ever drank was strictly medicinal, for threatened seasickness, and in spite of a loyal enjoyment of them which may be increasing in direct ratio to my dwindling selectivity of palate, I must admit that I still find them a sure prop to my flagging spirits, my tired or queasy body, even my over-timid social self. I think I know how many to drink, and when, and where, as well as why; and if I have acted properly and heeded all my physical and mental reactions to them, I have been the winner in many an otherwise lost bout with everything from boredom to plain funk. A well-made Martini or Gibson, correctly chilled and nicely served, has been more often my true friend than any two-legged creature.

-- M. F. K. Fisher, "To the Gibson and Beyond" (The Atlantic, January 1949)

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Remember: the only difference between a Martini and a Gibson is that the former gets an olive or lemon twist, the latter a cocktail onion or two. To make a "dirty" Martini serve with an olive and add a little of the olive juice from the jar. Vodka Martinis are OK, but for the full effect I recommend mixing gin (Hendrick's or Plymouth or Tanqueray or Beefeater) with a tablespoon of dry vermouth (preferably French: Noilly Prat); shake with ice, and serve straight up in frozen Martini glasses. Keep the gin (or vodka) in the freezer.

-- DL

Sinatra Stamp To Go On Sale

The USPS releases the Frank Sinatra commemorative postal stamp (first class: 42 cents) on Tuesday, May 13, ten years (minus one day) after the death of Old Blue Eyes.

-- DL

"A Letter" by Alexandra Zelman-Doring

Alexandra Zelman-Doring

A Letter

I look where I left you, conducting

long dialogue with the night.
Interrupting to ask of the moon with fear I have taken in me too, oh
my love.
Illusory the night watch thinking it hears
this dark, no that, the one on the water, the one in the eye, the increase the ripples dark and calm.

The infinitudes,
say.

-- Alexandra Zelman-Doring