Flying white hair, cravats, vests,
panchos. Sing-speaking your poemsas you played the lute. Sixties protest
poems, great leaps to Spanish and French
surrealism, a carom north to Friends, You Drank
Some Darkness Swedes. A farm-boy
Norwegian who went to Harvard (and
dated Adrienne Rich once), a troubadour
who hustled a living on the college tour
but would never get stuck in Swamp Tenure.
Once when I saw you read, a student got
up and left, and you said, "Where are you
going--to masturbate?" You were like
one of those friends I hated to go to bars
with--you liked to start fights (without fists.)
Bless you for trying to unharden the arteries
of American poetry, for riffing like a standup
comedian, for making poems explode
and burying Modernists. Then came
your "Men's Movement," well meant
but tin-eared, and Iron John, a Cinderella
for men. After I became a prof,
you came to campus and got the Methodists
dancing to a Brazilian chant. We walked
across campus and you couldn't help but
skewer other poets. When we parted,
you asked, "Are you fond of me, Hans?"
"Yes," I said, "I'm fond of you, Robert." Needy,
like a three-year old. Brilliant, like a mad
scientist. Big hearted--in defiance of cold
fathers everywhere. Well done and--
literally--good show, Robert. I see you
there, dancing on the moon.
of American poetry, for riffing like a standup
comedian, for making poems explode
and burying Modernists. Then came
your "Men's Movement," well meant
but tin-eared, and Iron John, a Cinderella
for men. After I became a prof,
you came to campus and got the Methodists
dancing to a Brazilian chant. We walked
across campus and you couldn't help but
skewer other poets. When we parted,
you asked, "Are you fond of me, Hans?"
"Yes," I said, "I'm fond of you, Robert." Needy,
like a three-year old. Brilliant, like a mad
scientist. Big hearted--in defiance of cold
fathers everywhere. Well done and--
literally--good show, Robert. I see you
there, dancing on the moon.
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