Thirty-six was better. Some fireless poetry by Walter Abish, a dull-witted interview with Michael McClure, a vanity-massaging garland of young poets plucked by Allen Ginsberg (they all sound more or less like he does); among the Americans here represented, only some faux-naif reflections by Carl Solomon and some extremely effective, haunting poetry by Allen Grossman stand up. Internationalism--as tacitly pleased with itself as the cheese section in a gourmet food shop-is otherwise stressed. Czech, Brazilian, Malaysian, Dutch work, all in translation and quite dull. Exceptions: a prose section by Rumanian Marcel Blecher, a writer hospitalized most of his life who writes intense focusings upon objects and rooms, claustrophobic and hallucinatory; and mysterious and deflecting prose poems by the Japanese poet Ryuichi Tamura, whom we were glad to have read for the first time. Otherwise, a second-rate stew.