One thing we can be certain of: were he alive, Bill’s poems would differ greatly from most of those now being written about our political situation.
The way he hovers beside her, slightly in front of her, refusing to be dismissed, suggests the persistence of an established relationship. But for his dress, they could be mistaken for lovers in a kind of quiet public quarrel.
In the end, he realizes it is art, the poem, that allows this vision: “butterflies, freed / from tapestries, would not survive on their own” unless the poet can preserve them. It is art after all that holds all time, all selves in a delicate harmony.
Does genius have a future in our understanding of literature?
My desire to have a boat had been purely abstract, of the type that it was natural of course to have a boat when one lives by a fjord and has the convenience of being able to set it in the water anytime and go for a trip. It was effortless in thought.
From Naples to Constantinople, just as long as it’s far from Copenhagen. Camels, sultans, dancing dervishes, the Orient is a mirror to his fantasy, and a balm for his ravished soul. If only his life were like the Thousand and One Nights. He understands now that fairytales are his true calling.
Twenty five years ago, when I was still just learning how to write a poem, and trying to locate the deeper sources for the poetry I wanted to write, Thomas McGrath’s example stood as a sign post. Here was a poet who could write any kind of poem he wanted ...
"... I got to the end, and I thought, the kid did it. It’s very witty.”
YES. Home. Fucking. Run.
“But,” Levine said, “it’s not a poem.”
Wait — what?
By 1962, the novelist John D. MacDonald relented to pressure from his editors and began preparations for the creation of a lasting serial character. The result would be the “salvage consultant” and reluctant rescuer of lost causes, Travis McGee.