I think Kees is moderately well-known in Britain, partly because of Dana
Gioia's advocacy, and also because Simon Armitage is a fan. There was even a
documentary, I believe. An interesting poet - 'Aspects of Robinson' is
terrific, though I'm not sure I quite buy the last line. My nomination, at
least for poet I'd like to find out more about, is Hugh Sykes Davies, though
I think there are several people showing an interest in him now, and even a
few poems by him on the Web: http://www.third-eye.org.uk/vl/aut_list.html
Best wishes,
Matthew Francis
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Visit my website at http://www.7greenhill.freeserve.co.uk
-----Original Message-----
From: Frederick Pollack <[log in to unmask]>
To: [log in to unmask] <[log in to unmask]>
Date: 02 July 2000 03:20
Subject: Lost or Neglected Poets
>I'd like to recommend Weldon Kees, one of my great favorites. Americans
>on this list will probably know of him; others may not. A poet's poet,
>never canonized, doesn't fit neatly into any schools of 1935-55 - some
>resemblance to the English Apocalyptics, but also to pre-modernist
>Americans like E. A. Robinson and Trumbull Stickney. Fascinating life -
>capable jazz musician, abstract painter, reviewer, short-story writer
>and (once) novelist. Got into, bored with, and out of every scene from
>New York to San Francisco before anyone discovered it; even during his
>lifetime the phrase about him was "ten minutes too early." And a noted
>depressive. In '55 his car was found in the parking lot on the Marin
>side of the Golden Gate Bridge, but his body was never found. In
>previous weeks he'd talked to some people about suicide, to others
>about pulling an Ambrose Bierce and disappearing into Mexico. Which is
>why to this day there are Kees sightings and poems about him. But not
>just a Romantic figure, a good poet. Collected Poems, ed. Donald
>Justice, Bison paperback. See also collected letters (some of the best,
>and nastiest, American literary gossip of the century), U. Nebraska
>Press, and selected reviews, U. Michigan Press.
>
>
>
>FOR MY DAUGHTER
>
>Looking into my daughter's eyes I read
>Beneath the innocence of morning flesh
>Concealed, hintings of death she does not heed.
>Coldest of winds have blown this hair, and mesh
>Of seaweed snarled these miniatures of hands;
>The night's slow poison, tolerant and bland,
>Has moved her blood. Parched years that I have seen
>That may be hers appear: foul, lingering
>Death in certain war, the slim legs green.
>Or, fed on hate, she relishes the sting
>Of others' agony; perhaps the cruel
>Bride of a syphilitic or a fool.
>These speculations sour in the sun.
>I have no daughter. I desire none.
>
>
>SMALL PRAYER
>
>Change, move, dead clock, that this fresh day
>May break with dazzling light to these sick eyes.
>Burn, glare, old sun, so long unseen,
>That time may find its sound again, and cleanse
>What ever it is that a wound remembers
>After the healing ends.
>
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