I’d like to begin by extending my sincere thanks both to Stacey and to David for inviting me to serve as a BAP guest blogger. I hardly need to remark on the rarity of forums of this sort, and I’m truly delighted to have the opportunity to engage with the wide and devoted community of readers and writers that this site represents.
For those of you who happen to know me, it won’t come as a great surprise to learn that this is my first attempt at blogging, and I beg your pardon in advance for any missteps as I endeavor to get my hands on the medium. I intend to use my time here simply to consider a few things that I've been batting around lately, and, while my musings are unlikely to coalesce into any sustained arguments, I’m hopeful that they will at least add up to a worthwhile week.
In collecting my thoughts for this series, I rather inevitably found myself contemplating the status and condition of American poetry today. Is the patient healthy? As I regarded its charts and vital signs, puzzling over possible diagnoses, I came upon this aptly-titled item in Richard Kenney’s One-Strand River:
Nobody at any rate reads it much. Your
citizenry have other forms of fun.
Still, who would wish to live in a culture
of which future anthropologists would say
Oddly, they had none?