Laureate

It was the eve of the annual elections. The Poet Laureate was tired. He returned from a whirlwind reading tour–Cleveland, Jonesboro, various pubs in Missoula, both Portlands– to his Baltimore garret to wait. There was no telling, despite the many…

Each Tree in Its Own Leaves

Throughout the month of May of this year, I had these lines floating around in my head: When I had journeyed half of our life’s way, I found myself within a shadowed forest, for I had lost the path that…

Among the Dead

I’ve spent some time among the shadows of this collection now, but didn’t yet have any galvanizing window into Merwin, or the book, which all reviews seem to tout as simple and profound (which sounds like an inspirational journey CD…

White/Noise

I am perhaps not the reader W. S. Merwin wants. I should say not reader but listener. Merwin says poetry begins and ends with listening. But he is so quiet I can barely hear him. Look at Shadow of Sirius–all…

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