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By C.K. Williams Another drought morning after a too-brief dawn downpour, I think of a troop of the blissful blessed approaching Dante, then of the frightening, brilliant, myriad gleam in my lamp a chamber whose walls seethed with a spaceless carpet of creatures, churning the warm, rank, cloying air; of how one, was looking straight at me, gazing solemnly, thoughtfully up as though it couldn't believe I was there, or were trying to place me, the trees still heartrendingly asparkle, Dante again, not the soul, or person, the life, and once more the bat, and I, his with no vision of celestial splendor, no poem, his without realizing it would, so soon, no longer exist, world, after-world, even their memory, steamed away This year, Williams is out with two volumes: "Wait," a collection of new poems, and "On Whitman," an exploration of the work and genius of that great American poet. You can listen a conversation I had with him last week here. |
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