Forest In this clearing, batsflutter in sunset circles. I brought my daughter hereas a child. Her echo nowin her brother’s eyes, laughing. fire a fire at the endthe boy’s stick traces letters playing with fire startswith nine years, wood, a fatherlost in a shooting-star night morning she sleeps, her eyeslost…
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Dear Abby, I’ve been struggling with the dissertation thing and only this week got out of thinking about it in terms of a Ph.D.—complete book, professional affirmation, personal achievement, not being a slouch, having completed something in the professional realm, a way of showing “those bastards”—all the baggage you can…
Leave a CommentBillie, The last I saw you, you weren’t doing well. Sallow. Pale. Sort of puffy. I hope that things are shaping up and that the mania has subsided. I can’t offer you any advice. I have yet to deal with this problem myself. As far as sex and love: I…
Leave a CommentBillie, I’m making only slow progress. In part, it’s due to sorting through aspects of the larger context and trying to boil those down to what is at once brief and understandable. As I do this, of course, my thesis about John Neihardt and the reason for its existence—its importance,…
Leave a CommentDear Ingrid, Most people will say it’s hard to talk about poetry with any kind of seriousness unless you have studied poetry. I think that is true, but only in the sense that you need to read poems to understand what they are and whence they might come. Many of…
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