I have concluded my self-imposed hiatus from this blog, and will be posting regularly again.
But I wanted to pre-restart with a note about Max Ritvo's forthcoming book of poems, Four Reincarnations, which will be published this Fall by Milkweed. (A poem from the book recently appeared in The New Yorker). Two days after Max joined two of my classes at Columbia in January 2014, I learned that he is terminally ill with Ewing's Sarcoma, a state of being that is in the text or subtext of many of his poems. But his poems—and his life—are about so much more. Max is one of the most intellectually and artistically gifted people I have ever known (he is also a wonderful performer). Timothy Donnelly—among others—has spoken splendidly about Max's work. For now, I will appropriate Max's own words:
A CENTO FOR MAX RITVO’S FOUR REINCARNATIONS
moving, joy, moving I am given a reward
so passionately and imaginatively
though the images vary exhaustingly and troublingly
much more beautiful than either one of our voices
your brain binds around mine, a gold gauze
this is how love works
thou art me before I am myself
you have my thoughts faster than I can
even of the imagination sizzling on top of it
I will live in your small ecstatic brain
for the possession of our smallest sensations
this is purity
who brings a kind of relief
in the middle of a blizzard
no one can speak the language you will rewrite
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