Thursday, July 27, 2017

Kickflips and Magic Tricks

“No ideas but in things.” William Carlos Williams wrote that. Wallace Stevens has a similar quote, in fact it’s the title of the final piece in his Collected Poems: “Not Ideas About the Thing but the Thing Itself.” Here’s a link to it on the amazing Poetry Foundation website. (Don’t worry, it’s short.)

And you hear a lot of variations on those statements when talking about poetry, it’s a truism by now. I’ve often heard it used to mean, “Show, don’t tell.” Like, “Don’t tell us the soldier was sad, show us the frayed edges of the scratchy green blanket his buddy just died on.” That’s not bad advice, as far as it goes. It’s not good advice, either: it’s the poetry class equivalent of, “Wash your hands before eating finger foods.” It only helps when you haven’t tucked in to the meal yet. 

Speaking of classes, I took one with Pacific Northwest poet David Waggoner a while ago. One of my vivid memories was his admonishing us never to use the word “thing” in a poem. “It’s an empty word, a useless word. It gives you nothing you didn’t already have.” 

But it does, doesn’t it? “It gives you no thing you didn’t already have.”

I’ve always found “no ideas but in things” to be hypocritical at worst and self-contradictory at best. (Self-contradiction is always better because it’s interesting: hypocrites are inevitably dull.) Neither Wallace nor William actually included things in their poems! They’re not mailing the reader a twig or a copper coin, they’re not including a sprig of holly or a bird feather in the pages of their books. So maybe what they mean is, “No (IDEAS of) ideas but in (IDEAS of) things.” 

There’s this constant imaginative remove taking place, we’re always at least one degree of separation away from things. In some ways, that’s the beauty of it – we’re applying our experience or opinions to the proceedings. It’s never just a sunrise or a bird song or a kiss or a slap or a daffodil or a bell jar. Things are always what we make of them, an interpretive function.

("Der Ding" by James Vaughan is licensed under CC BY 2.0)

And what really flips my lid is that this is happening on both ends of the process! The poet is applying their own skill in composing, their tastes and value judgments, their ideas and opinions and free associations and childhood memories and half-formed logic. And the reader does this, too: taking the raw stuff the poem is made of, the scratches on the page, the spaces and punctuation, the line breaks and stanza breaks, the title and epigram, the margins and font, and using that as grist for their own mill of wonderment and transubstantiation. 

Plenty of academics in the linguistics field marvel at the fact that language can be used to communicate anything at all, given the gulfs that separate any two humans. It is truly strange that poems do what they do: poems have the same kind of appeal to me as a flashy kickflip on a skateboard or a daring stage illusion or a parkour video on YouTube. They’re things that shouldn’t be possible but yet here they are, doing the weird wild subterranean business of jointly creating meaning when it seems hardly likely such a thing could ever happen. 

It’s kind of cheating chaos, making something out of nothing when there really should only be nothing. And to prove my point, I’ll end with a creepy poem that proudly defies Mr. Waggoner’s sage advice. 

Hope things are good on your end.

A Reader’s Companion
Matt Quarterman

Please pay attention.
Read closely.
I have news for you.

You are being watched.

I am watching you
read these very words
even as I write them.

You have felt unafraid
for a very long time,
safe in your careless observation.

But I see you.

I know what you are doing.
Even ceasing to read
will not break my gaze.

Feel free to stop. Look around,
shake off the creeps crawling the skin
in the back of your mind.

Turn around,
turn around turn,
around and turn.

I’ll still be here
doing nothing else
but patiently waiting

to watch you do
whatever things you do
when you read this.

Even if the panic subsides 
and you can forget
the words you read.

Get comfortable.
Get used to it.
I’ve been here a long time.

I’m not going anywhere.

(“Something” by Pat Guiney is licensed under CC BY 2.0)

Thursday, June 15, 2017

To Seem Beautiful Again, and Interesting, and Modern: Poetry in Advertising

Nobody loves ads. Oh, sure, there are those commercials with enough cleverness or star power or humor to make you not-quite-resent them. (The Old Spice campaign "The Man Your Man Could Smell Like" comes to mind.) 

But in the end, nobody likes paying for things, especially when they have no choice in the matter. You've probably had that experience of loading up a video to show a group of people, only to have an interminable, unskippable ad play first while you chuckle awkwardly and wait out those 30 seconds that feel like eternity.

But between the ridiculousness of advertising and the sublime of poetry, there's a middle ground. (Ridiculime? Subculousness?) Presented for your consideration:

This is a video from Levi's "Go Forth" campaign from about 2009. It featured some well-photographed snippets of pretty young people mostly doing pretty young people things over pretty, nostalgic instrumental music. So far, so whatever.

But this campaign used spoken excerpts from work by American poets (all white, all male) like Walt Whitman and Charles Bukowski as their ad copy. The ads were created by Wieden+Kennedy and  here they are. Incidentally, one of the branches of Wieden+Kennedy also created the aforementioned Old Spice campaign.

I love that they even use one of the existent Walt Whitman phonograph recordings to score one ad spot. Because the audio is so scratchy and unintelligible, they provide subtitles to make the message clear:

I think what I love about these ads are how they subconsciously link a quintessential product of American capitalism like blue jeans with a litany of ideals, symbols and images that are shorthand for American identity. It makes buying denim seem patriotic, a re-affirmation of our existence in this space and time. There's a yearning at the heart of these videos, and that yearning can be easily assuaged by a run to Target.

It's not just jeans. Here's one from a pharmaceutical conglomerate that uses a stanza of Dylan Thomas's "Do Not Go Gentle into That Good Night":

I don't think this one is that great, honestly. (It kind of looks like the creators of "House M.D." needed to turn in a video essay for a poetry class.) But it does at least show the range of products and services employing poetry to do their work for them.

For my money, the best use of poems in commercials are reaching out for something larger and more ineffable. I think especially of this recent Apple ad using Maya Angelou's "The Human Family":

What works for me is that it's less about a product than about being a human in the world. The poem's emphasis on the joy of diversity and our essential common humanity drives home the marketing message that we're all people, we all love seeing ourselves and our loved ones represented in still and moving images. So why not embrace your humanity and buy an iPhone?

And then my most-least-favorite use of poetry in ads comes courtesy of this Infiniti car commercial in which Kit Harrington drives fast while reciting William Blake's "The Tyger" like an English teacher who's decided to break bad:

Everything about this is so hilariously tone-deaf: why the hell did they cast Jon Snow? Why the hell did they choose this weird, famous poem to shill for their car? Why did they direct the actor to sing-song faster and faster in an increasingly frenetic tone? And why for God's sake did they decide to end with the actor giving his best Keanu Reeves "Whoah"?! 

It's delightfully nonsensical, and I love watching it every time.

This trend of poems in ads hasn't gone unnoticed  There are quite a few articles remarking on, decrying or defending the rise of poetry in advertising. I feel that almost all of them miss the point: ads are going to happen. If not the lifeblood of capitalism, commercials are at least the respiratory system. And if advertising is an inescapable facet of contemporary life, we can at least demand that it do more than one thing at a time.

Sure, sell me your car insurance and dating sites and fast food and Shake Weights. But you're going to have to work at it – you can't just keep giving us CG animals saying some lame catch phrase. Give us poetry, some thought and attention to detail and craft and art. 

So I'll end with the defining example of my obsession with advertising and poetry: Don Draper reading Frank O'Hara's poem "Mayakovsky." (Note: there is a commercial before the video plays.)

The best ads make me feel something. And isn't that the point of poetry?

Tuesday, March 7, 2017

Old Movie Credits

Old Movie Credits
Matt Quarterman

The fanfare swells no matter who
lives or who dies, what explodes
or is contained, red wire blue
she jumps, she's caught, he's dead
but she's not and neither
were really who we thought but
still the strings and horns clash,
tied at the wrist and locked
until someone submits and usually
it's us because finally
we can be told the hidden truth
we'd been waiting for without
knowing what it was and there
it is in terrifying flame,
ninety feet high to tell us
this is the end The End THE END.

Thursday, October 15, 2015

To Want to Escape from These Things

I want to tell you about poetry and personality. There are a LOT of fun quotes from poets about poetry and what it does. (In some cases, I prefer the quotes to the poets.) Here are a few favorites:

"The poet is the priest of the invisible." – Wallace Stevens

"Poetry makes nothing happen." – W.H. Auden

"Poets are the unacknowledged legislators of the world." – Percy Bysshe Shelley (And knowing what we do about legislators, that poet make nothing happen comes as no surprise.)

All of these are fun to think about, think through or think around, but the one I've continually turned over in my head is from that patron saint of curmudgeonly grumps, Uncle Tommy himself:

"Poetry is not a turning loose of emotion, but an escape from emotion; it is not the expression of personality, but an escape from personality. But, of course, only those who have personality and emotions know what it means to want to escape from these things." – T.S. Eliot

The not-so-subtle elitism doesn't impress me much anymore, but I've always tried to understand what he meant about escaping personality. What would that mean, especially in the context of writing? What would that sound like? Is that even something desirable?

I have to start with my belief that there's no-one alive who didn't at least begin writing poetry to express their personality: whether it's a love sonnet, existential angst, a political call to arms or an identity manifesto, we just need to get our thoughts and feelings out. We just need to be heard and, as the poet Madonna herself said: express yourself.

But I'm starting to change my mind. Maybe a poem is a way of creating something solid, completely apart from us. Maybe a poem is more like a chair: it has a purpose even if no-one's sitting in it. We don't need the craftsman's thoughts on life, her political perspective, even her signature, in order to participate in the reason the chair was crafted.

Now, I'm not doubting all of those aforementioned items inform the decisions that lead to the final product. It could well be illuminating and enhance my enjoyment of sitting in that chair to have a sense of the person behind it. But it's in no way essential.

Yet here's a fun thing: last year I read a biography of T.S. Eliot and it BLEW MY MIND how personal his poems are. In high school, I first read his late-period "Four Quartets" and I was impressed by the quality of the verse, the stateliness, the philosophical urgency:

What might have been and what has been

Point to one end, which is always present
Footfalls echo in the memory
Down the passage which we did not take
Towards the door we never opened
Into the rose-garden

But for all its strengths, I also thought it lacked the panache, the punch of earlier poems like "Prufrock" or "Ash-Wednesday." They seemed colorless, lacking a personal touch.

Except this bio describes specific days, specific outings, specific landscape features that Eliot was referencing! It's not just any old passage, any old door, any old rose-garden: he's describing one superlative day in 1934 on the grounds of a mansion in Gloucestershire with an almost-but-never-quite love, Emily Hale.

So on the one hand, this is the most self-indulgent impulse, the one everybody starts from, the stuff of embarrassing teen journals and cryptic Facebook posts. On the other, this is a poet trying to take the raw material of his life and REMOVE HIMSELF FROM THE EQUATION.

Or is he? It's hard to tell. He's tricky that way.

So all of this to say, today is Pregnancy and Infant Loss Remembrance Day. Here's something from a couple of years ago that seems relevant both to the discussion and to the day.

The Prank

They ring the bell and run.

I should expect it tonight. It’s the night

our house covered in white paper
soaks up turned eggs and the flaming brown bag.
The gourd is crushed, tradition fulfilled.

There’s sugar on my hands

melted, waxy. I give it up
I offer it freely.

My clothing is changed, the harvest brought in.

Descend storm clouds, raindrops, leaves.

I carry my head in my hands

like an orange basketball, jaw framed
and candle lit, stuck deep in my mouth
silent, illuminated.

Children are dressed carefully, tended.

They line up at the doorstep,
the ghosts receiving my blessings
this year, this season.

I’m snarling. I’m howling at the moon.

I’m not a man.
I’m not weeping.

Saturday, August 16, 2014

No Evil Star

There’s this podcast mostly (but not entirely) NOT about U2. It features a star of NBC’s hit show “Parks and Recreation.” It’s a little podcast called U Talkin’ U2 to Me?! I’d like to restart this blog with words made eternally famous by that program:

“It’s been awhile…”

So to catch you up, when we last met over TWO YEARS AGO it was mostly cheery talk about my grandfather and oldest friend dying within a few months of each other. Since then things have been mostly great: my wife got her Master’s, we vacationed in Hawaii and Portugal, we lost a pregnancy, so anyhoo… How are you?

But this isn’t about personal tragedy. (Except insofar as reading, writing, reading about poetry and writing about poetry could be considered a personal tragedy.) To quote another favorite podcast, Battleship Pretension – let’s get into it, shall we? 

I should preface today’s poem by saying that I have no idea what it means or why exactly it speaks to me. It’s one of the nice things about art that you don’t really have to calibrate your response as an eloquently framed argument – you respond however you do, and if you’re lucky maybe you learn something about yourself from the experience. 

Before I blather much more about aesthetics and critical response, let’s have the poem. It’s a doozy.


A palindrome seen on the side of a barn in Ireland

After Adam broke his rib in two
and ate it for supper,
after Adam, from the waist up,
an old mother,
had begun to question the wonder
Eve was brought forth.
Eve came out of that rib like an angry bird.
She came forth like a bird that got loose
suddenly from its cage.
Out of the cage came Eve,
escaping, escaping.
She was clothed in her skin like the sun
and her ankles were not for sale.

God looked out through his tunnel
and was pleased.

Adam sat like a lawyer
and read the book of life.
Only his eyes were alive.
They did the work of a blast furnace.

Only later did Adam and Eve go galloping,
galloping into the apple.
They made the noise of the moon-chew
and let the juice fall down like tears.
Because of this same apple
Eve gave birth to the evilest of creatures
with its bellyful of dirt
and its hair seven inches long.
It had two eyes full of poison
and routine pointed teeth.
Thus Eve gave birth.
In this unnatural act
she gave birth to a rat.
It slid from her like a pearl.
It was ugly, of course,
but Eve did not know that
and when it died before its time
she placed its tiny body
on that piece of kindergarten called STAR.

Now all us cursed ones falling out after
with our evil mouths and our worried eyes
die before our time
but do not go to some heaven, some hell
but are put on the RAT’S STAR
which is as wide as Asia
and as happy as a barbershop quartet.
We are put there beside the three thieves
for the lowest of us all
deserve to smile in eternity
like a watermelon.

Take a minute if you need one. 

No? Onward then.

I’ve mentioned before (to an extravagant, almost excessive degree) how much I love stuff about Adam & Eve or the Garden of Eden. It’s a surefire hook the same way a surf guitar riff or spaghetti western opening credits make me stop whatever it is I’m doing and take on a look of crazed enthusiasm. This Eden poem makes all the right moves: cynical, minimalist, barely sketching an outline of the scene but giving us weird details that fill things in. 

Some specific words that really work for me: “tunnel,” “blast furnace,” “moon-chew,” “pearl,” “kindergarten.” I notice they’re all nouns, which is one of those ten-for-a-nickel writing lessons a Yahoo! Answers page will give you: use descriptive nouns more often than descriptive adjectives. Your mileage may vary, please consult your doctor.

Then there’s the hint of repetition: “like an angry bird… like a bird,” “escaping, escaping,” “some heaven, some hell.” And the allusions: maybe some Leda and the Swan, maybe some Pied Piper of Hamelin, definitely some Golgotha. 

And the near-rhymes: “supper,” “mother,” “wonder.” There’s a lot of musicality here, and “musicality” is a word which in reference to poetry means: “I’m not sure what I’m talking about, but I like it!” Sexton is obviously a nimble, accomplished poet who uses the weird because she knows it’s weird. 

That doesn’t make it any less weird.

For example: while the palindrome obviously inspired the poem, why mention the barn in Ireland? Are barbershop quartets really an apt image for happiness? And the final image that seems to make the whole thing clatter to a halt: “smile in eternity / like a watermelon.” I’d say it’s a misstep but everything else in this thing is so assured, so effortless that it seems odd to say she just couldn’t stick the landing. It’s a visual metaphor, a slice of watermelon resembling a cartoon outline of a Cheshire Cat grin, but is that really the last impression she wants to offer us?

I don’t know, man, I honestly couldn’t tell you. Maybe that’s one of my telltale signs that something has art to it: a vague sense that it’s befuddling me but there’s something worthwhile behind it all. I think about Harmony Korine's “Spring Breakers” or Hiroshi Sugimoto’s photographs of empty theaters or Kafka’s “In the Penal Colony” – works of art that are baffling but somehow still deft, still capable. They at least give the illusion that there’s a key to unlock everything if I’m just patient enough.

Or maybe it’s proof I’m a sucker for a good mystery.

Saturday, November 26, 2011

The Blind Side -- Confessions of a Recovering Bigot

I knew that after the first year I would have to slow down with the blog, though I didn't intend to end it completely. So I apologize to my adoring fans for the radio silence, offering up only this excuse: it's been a rough year. 
But I'd rather not have all the posts for 2011 be about death, much though the subject entrances me. So I’ve got a much cheerier subject for today: race.
I read an incredible article today called “Writing Like a White Guy” by Jaswinder Bolina. It’s pretty far-ranging, examining  assimilation, the second-generation immigrant experience, a post-Obama American academia, the perceived necessity to write or not write about race in order to ingratiate yourself with a specific audience.
But my favorite part was this:
“When I say ‘privilege’ here, I mean the condition of not needing to consider what others are forced to consider. The privilege of whiteness in America—particularly male, heteronormative whiteness—is the privilege to speak from a blank slate, to not need to address questions of race, gender, sexuality, or class except by choice, to not need to acknowledge wherefrom one speaks. It’s the position of no position, the voice from nowhere or from everywhere. In this, it is Godlike, and if nothing else, that’s saying something.”
This seems to point a finger right at me. I come from a background of particularly male, heteronormative whiteness that not only has no need to address questions of race, gender, sexuality or class but positively disdains to. I saw those questions as side trails at best, but primarily as unimportant distractions. After all, why bother with such picayune details when one’s eternal soul was at stake?
And there’s the rub: as a straight white male American, such “minor” concerns don’t touch me unless I let them. I can focus on whichever I choose, or none at all. And this blind spot leads me to hold those in contempt for whom such questions are unavoidable, inescapable. I can see it in my choice of reading material: I favor male poets over female, straight over gay, religious over secular. 
I wonder if that blind spot is precisely what gets white people into trouble. You can see it in our stereotypes — the White Savior, the White Supremacist, the Great White Hope. And the obverse side — the Magical Black Man, the Black Sidekick, the Cool Black Guy. And that’s scratching a small surface of one side of the coin.
As a good 21st-century liberal, I feel a duty to be shocked and appalled by my own ignorance. I feel a little taken aback, actually: I’ve felt this dichotomy for years, but never seemed to stop and examine it. How can I claim to be sensitive to race, class, culture, gender, orientation, but still feel above it all? I tend to force writers to cater to my tastes and preferences, which includes not addressing the concerns mentioned above. I don’t care about such things, why should they?
In my worst moments, I can hear myself sounding like a bigoted member of your extended family, the ones who never seemed to get that you have to at least give some due obeisance to political correctness. For example: “Those black poets, always writing about how black they are. Why can’t they find something ELSE to talk about?” Or, “You’re gay, and you’re writing about being gay. Surprise, surprise!”
I think this revelation has led me in two distinct but complementary directions: dive far more deeply into writing that addresses these questions. And force myself to examine my own heritage of whiteness, privilege and apathy. 
I think I may be the worst kind of bigot: the one who believes himself a tolerant, respectful champion of (air-quotes) minorities. But I’m starting to appreciate Oprah’s favorite quote from Terence: “I am a man, I consider nothing that is human alien to me.” 
But I think I need your help to do it. How can a white guy learn to love and build up every human that is different from him? 
I close with one of Bolina’s poems I found online that obliquely addresses some of this:

Course in General Linguistics
Jaswinder Bolina

If I’m going to be attacked, let it be by a rare pathogen
not some yokel hurling
sand nigger at me
from a beat-up Cutlass Sierra at seven a.m.
If I’m going to be attacked,
let it be by asteroid or metastasis
not the toothless yahoo of my expectations.
What I can’t understand is
who has the energy to be a xenophobe at seven in the morning.
Not me anyway, though I have energy enough to think of language.
Thud meant the saying
of sand nigger, so a sign is more than a signifier
with its tongue neatly stuck
in the ear of the signified.
It sometimes slobbers around some.
Anyway, I don’t mind being attacked,
just let it be by precision guidance
or satellite track, a line item in the budget
instead of dead language. Sand nigger,
he hollered, hoping for a rim shot maybe,
or maybe meaning, Go back where you came from.
How could I explain I had nowhere to go,
no other way to get where I was going,
and I hadn’t meant to sully his morning
and hadn’t meant to make him uncomfortable,
but if he thought he was uncomfortable,
I mean the guy howled
Sand nigger! at me,
and there were people around.
I was so embarrassed for them
looking so uncertainly to me and what I might do,
so I set about explaining
how he’d gotten the country of origin wrong,
how my folks are from green fields
and there isn’t any sand there,
and I’m from Chicago,
and sure I’m brown, but I’m harmless.   
I mean, I don’t even believe in God.
Then I thought of all the people he meant
when he offered, Sand nigger,
and thought of all the people
he might’ve hoisted sand nigger upon
just that morning even, and how even now
he’s probably somewhere in his Cutlass Sierra
shouting, Sand nigger! Sand nigger!
at over-baked socialites strolling out of tanning salons,
squinting into the sun,
and how all us sand niggers are in this together.
Anyway, he shouted sand nigger,
and the others I told this to all agreed
it was just disgusting the way he shouted that at me,
so the signifier disgusting signified that
which signified sand nigger
which had meant disgusting all along,
but I could barely blame him,
all that concrete and glass
having fallen out of blue September,
the god-awful, sand-nigger sky,
how it was his sky, and I wanted then to embrace him
and murmur, I understand,
or, I’m sorry,
or maybe, I want to stab you in the heart,   
meaning, How easy it is to wound,
how much easier to be the wounded.

Wednesday, April 20, 2011

They Have Their Day and Cease to Be

Sometimes friends or acquaintances ask me why I'm so "into" poetry. I have to stumble around for something moderately unpretentious, particular challenging for me and anyone, really, who admits to being a poetry geek. You could say it's the rhythm, the beauty, the captivation of the best words in the best order. Total bull.

The real reason I keep coming back to poems at dark, profound or troubled moments, is this:

What I gain from poetry is wisdom.

Not the kind of "deep thoughts" you glean from Oprah or Dr. Phil or chicken soup for the sentimental soul. This is the stuff that's always hard-won, the kind of thing you only win by losing.

Three weeks ago my oldest friend Raudy Steele died of a heart attack at the age of 30. We met when we were barely 13. In a few weeks he was going to drive from New Mexico to Seattle for a U2 concert with me. Instead he died, most likely in his sleep. 

I've never been in mourning before, and I had all the typical but still unexpected reactions: doubt, confusion, resentment, survivor's guilt, shock. I didn't know what to say, what to think, what was right or proper or expected. I didn't know how to honor his memory, commemorate our friendship.

So I did what I always do: I tried to find something to read. This is what I found.

In Memoriam: Preface
Alfred, Lord Tennyson

Strong Son of God, immortal Love,
Whom we, that have not seen thy face,
By faith, and faith alone, embrace,
Believing where we cannot prove;

Thine are these orbs of light and shade;
Thou madest Life in man and brute;
Thou madest Death; and lo, thy foot
Is on the skull which thou hast made.

Thou wilt not leave us in the dust:
Thou madest man, he knows not why,
He thinks he was not made to die;
And thou hast made him: thou art just.

Thou seemest human and divine,
The highest, holiest manhood, thou.
Our wills are ours, we know not how;
Our wills are ours, to make them thine.

Our little systems have their day;
They have their day and cease to be:
They are but broken lights of thee,
And thou, O Lord, art more than they.

We have but faith: we cannot know;
For knowledge is of things we see
And yet we trust it comes from thee,
A beam in darkness: let it grow.

Let knowledge grow from more to more,
But more of reverence in us dwell;
That mind and soul, according well,
May make one music as before,

But vaster. We are fools and slight;
We mock thee when we do not fear:
But help thy foolish ones to bear;
Help thy vain worlds to bear thy light.

Forgive what seem'd my sin in me;
What seem'd my worth since I began;
For merit lives from man to man,
And not from man, O Lord, to thee.

Forgive my grief for one removed,
Thy creature, whom I found so fair.
I trust he lives in thee, and there
I find him worthier to be loved.

Forgive these wild and wandering cries,
Confusions of a wasted youth;
Forgive them where they fail in truth,
And in thy wisdom make me wise.

On my porch — simultaneously weeping, smoking, drinking and praying  — this poem was the only thing that spoke to me. It didn't comfort me or ease my pain, which in any case I had no wish to be eased. But it struck me with the strength that only truth has.

I'd hate to think that this makes poetry just literary self-help, something like Zig Ziglar meets the most well-worn Robert Frost lines. But there's a reason psalms aren't written in prose, there's a reason proverbs are poems in miniature. Sometimes you need that small, sharp spike of wisdom honed to a needle point.

Raudy wasn't one for poetry much. I didn't spend enough time around him to bug him with my mania for verse. But now my memories of him and Tennyson's of his dead soulmate Arthur have some invisible linkage. And sooner or later all poems are conversations with the dead. "In Memoriam" gave me something to start the conversation with.

It's sad that a blog post is all I have to honor him, but that which I have I give.