When I got to know Bill Berkson, my life as a writer was completely changed.
Ron Padgett’s poems make me gnash my teeth.
Edward McPherson’s collected essays in The History of the Future are a literary kitchen sink in which no event or issue appears more important or relevant than any other.
Marjorie Welish’s poetry, like Thelonious Monk’s music, is a montage of moving parts in which you’d be wise to expect the unexpected.
“Why should I look at this [art] instead of out the window?” asks Bill Berkson in one of the prose poems from his stellar new collection, Expect Delays.
One mind-stumping sensation a reader is likely to glean from Ron Padgett’s Collected Poems (Minneapolis: Coffee House Press, 2013) is that the poems wrote themselves, and that he just happened to be in the room when they showed up. There is even a substantial section in Collected Poems that Padgett titled: POEMS I GUESS I WROTE (2001).