What books did you like to read growing up? Oh, some of them were pretty obvious.
Introduction to The Wedge I first read W. It was either spring or fall, I believe, of I have, associated with this book, a memory of sad, warm days, but I'm not sure. I loved being an MFA student, although I was very unhappy all the time, without realizing it. I read poetry constantly and wrote all sorts of poems on a manual typewriter that used to belong to my mother in high school, which I salvaged from my grandparents' atticall of them failures.
All three were calm in their behavior while unpredictable in their interests, and all three were writing with great force and power. My fellow students were bright and nervous, and we all had the sense that something very important was starting to happen, even if we didn't know exactly what it was.
It's probably hard to imagine now, but at the time, we barely thought about publishing in magazines, much less a book. Of course, we wanted to, but that was really for "later.
We very much thought of ourselves as experimenters, practicers, apprentices. My paperback copy of The Vixen is a very light tan color, with what looks like a painting of a fox on the cover.
Actually, it's a not a painting or drawing, but a blurry, impressionistic photograph by Minoru Taketazu, presumably from his book Fox Family: The Four Seasons of Animal Life. It is described on Amazon. I'm sure I must have bought it when it first came out in paperback, at Wooton's, a small bookstore right on the main drag in Amherst, where we went almost every day to lurk and wait to see who else would come in to hang out.
That store is no longer there, though its former proprietor, Mark Wooton, is one of the co-owners of the marvelous Amherst Books, right around the corner. On the first blank page before the title page, in pencil I see written in my handwriting Wed 23 At that time, my unhappiness, which I had always just taken for granted, had recently taken on the particularly virulent, malevolent, self-destructive form of a triangular love affair, composed of me and two of my fellow graduate students, a former couple.
The whole thing was typical and destructive and inexcusable and humiliating and just generally a giant, psychologically inevitable train wreck. All the time I was trying to write poems, and I remember being very frustrated, in a poetic sense as well as a personal one.
Looking back on it now, I can see, with a little tolerance and forgiveness, that I was just starting to really understand the possibilities of language as material, in the same way a painter might start at some early point to truly begin to know paint.
But at the time, I was deep in the middle of many interrelated crises of confidence and couldn't see any way forward, except to thrash wildly in one aesthetic direction or another in the hope something would stick.
Some of my difficulties were inherent to the condition of being a novice. Some, however, were a result of the times. In the late s, it was taken for granted, widely in poetry and especially in many of the top graduate programs in creative writing, that it was unsophisticated, retrograde, even manipulative to sully whatever was "poetic" in a poem with any kind of story or situation.
Everyone knew a poet had to relinquish the crutch of narrative to write true poetry and not its mere, sad cousin, lyrical prose. To call a poem narrative was just a euphemism for square, unsophisticated, sappy, self-absorbed, and old-fashioned.
It was therefore a silent article of faith among the students though not the professors that any sort of anecdotal narration was by its nature incompatible with poetry. Of course, even a cursory study of poetry from almost any time period would quickly reveal this aesthetic position as patently incorrect.It is at this time, that you can review all of the descriptions and estimates and discuss any changes you would like with a member of our consignment team.
Hudson Valley HorseSource, Katonah NY DIRECTORY Tri-State Horse, Clayville NY MONTHLY American Driving Society - ADS, Cross Plains WI OMNIBUS, WHIP Equine Wellness, Peterborough ON BI-MONTHLY My. The American poet W. S.
Merwin, who turns ninety this year, has for decades written his scanty, unpunctuated poems from a palm forest on the remote north shore of Maui. Merwin . "FOR THE ANNIVERSARY OF MY DEATH" by W.S. Merwin. Every year without knowing it I have passed the day When the last fires will wave to me And the silence will set out Tireless traveler Like the beam of a lightless star.
Then I will no longer Find myself in life as in a strange garment. W.S. Merwin remains an active and highly influential poet. He has won a number of prizes and has served as Chancellor of The Academy of American Poets.
Poems such as "The Drunk in the Furnace," "For the Anniversary of My Death," and "The River of Bees" ar.
W.S. Merwin was born in New York City in and raised in New Jersey and Scranton, Pennsylvania, the son of a Presbyterian minister. For the Anniversary of My Death. For the Grave of Posterity.
Foreign Summer. Fox Sleep. The Gods. Good People. Half Roundel Iowa Review, winter, , Cary Nelson and Ed Folsom.