So Laura Bush will not, after all, be discussing the works of Emily Dickinson, Walt Whitman and Langston Hughes with a selected group of American poets at the White House on February 12.
The hive is for where
the honey was.
Was findable there,
Sometimes, I think I dreamed it,
or I am saying it like a thing
Frederick Seidel of St. Louis, Missouri, is probably the last American decadent–certainly he is the most distinguished.
In the rabbi’s parable a lame one climbs
Onto a blind one’s shoulders and together
They take the fruit of the garden of the Lord.
Here where everyone forgets everything,
including where they are
or what they are fighting to remember,
An English woman I’ve never met
calls to read me her new poem
about the little Texas junco bird
whose cry sounded to the early settlers
The day that Kenneth Rexroth died was not a dark, cold day.