In my first Zoom interview, I converse with Travis Lane from Fredericton NB about everything from Elizabeth Bishop to the war, from the importance of being able to learn to howl like wolves to how Canada radically lacks saints. And first, she recites the poem Rich Autumn (along with a few childhood ditties!) I laugh and gush too much but there you have it. She’s 87 and an amazing force :)

For Ellen. Who died on March 16 at 77 and who was a fabulous human and committed poet and lovely presence in the world. Thank you.

In homage to Joe Rosenblatt’s third passing away day, the final elegy in The Art of Losing. Passage yes. And Beauty. Gone and yet forever. See you in Season Five outlaws.

Ok I’m sick but I’m still recording this second to last piece in The Art of Losing and one of my fave poets, Mr Merrill. Whose Last Words are beautiful.

I went to a show. It was amazing. Except the writing. Why? Cliche. Why do we accept this in our art making. I say nay. A writer’s job is to refresh the language so one can feel again. And do. I bring in definitions and a bit of a draft and Pound and Frost. It could go in many directions. Here’s a start.

Happy international Women’s day! Herewith a poem on gratitude and the senses and reality from The Art Of Losing and a poet we lost too soon.

This atheist-earthiest still loves this god poem by the nutty Cummings and his typographical jolliness. And it was a day like that for me today. Giving thanks by a fire pit under a blue sky. Includes a 1953 recording of the poet reading the piece himself. Yes.

Enjoy this curmudgeon librarian and his too true poem about the lies of nature’s renewal as I bumble about trying to explicate rhymes ;) From the Redemption section of The Art of Losing.

Boy it’s a challenge to talk about form and rhythm schemes! At any rate, here’s a reading by the poet himself, me nattering and then reciting it too. One of the most mysterious villanelles. Last elegy in the section on Recovery (loathe that word!) in The Art of Losing.

I blather a bit here as sometimes happens when I’m trying to trace deeply embedded rhythms but yes, the shifting tones, the deeply human beauty of dying at just the right time and not malingering.