Jack and I went to the town library together so he could knock out his Social Studies before going to his friend's house for a Super Bowl party. I lifted someone's 504 page collected works off the shelf and spent an hour reading though it. A poet - the professional kind - who probably has a lofty faculty position somewhere, gets paid to show up and do readings, gives authoritative interviews, and is probably quoted frequently. I read a significant portion of his work - early, middle and late - and I didn't feel anything. That sucks. That really sucks. The culmination of a lifetime of effort.
What did you think?
Well, I was unmoved.
What makes a writer write? What keeps a writer writing? Who is he writing for?
I saw bare trees filled with crows silhouetted against the Holyoke dusk tonight, and I wanted to show someone.
What did you think?
Well, I was unmoved.
What makes a writer write? What keeps a writer writing? Who is he writing for?
I saw bare trees filled with crows silhouetted against the Holyoke dusk tonight, and I wanted to show someone.
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