Jack Spicer’s poetry can be deeply funny and playful but it has a consistent undercurrent of sadness.
Since Aimé Césaire’s death in 2008 at the age of 94, as democracies devolve into autocracies, his Discourse on Colonialism remains prescient about the barbarity that informs civilization.
Greenwald combines a Wordsworthian sense of nature with cartoon-like characters.
Ceravolo worked for most of his life as a civil engineer and brought an outsider sensibility to his poetics.
Some of us didn’t need letters from him, because he trusted us to do what we did without requiring his instruction or encouragement.
The title of Fred Moten’s latest collection, The Little Edges, pinpoints the border country where his poetry unfolds.
When I recall the poet Harvey Shapiro, who died not long before his eighty-ninth birthday in January 2013, I remember having lunch with him on a sweltering August afternoon in 2001, New York City’s hottest day in twenty-five years, or so the radio said.