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This is a lovely story, Hal, about discovering the Hilda Moreley poem. I have always been taken by the way the poem or novel may be brought either freshly back into light, or first discovered, in contexts that are not aligned with "where I usually do my reading." (Kitchen table, living room table, or this often godforsaken iMac Monitor - where,ironically, it's a delight to read the Hilda Morley poem and your note!). I suspect each of us could write small histories of discovering poems in unexpected places. I always hated reading novels in college - the pressures, etc. - and I was a very slow reader. But I remember the great pleasure of reading Faulkner's Light in August while hitchhiking around Crete in August of 1972. There were probably 5 cars and 10 trucks on Crete then! Sitting on my backpack for long periods in the August heat were entirely compatible with reading Faulkner's prose. I will never forget it. Or then, recently, finding a copy of William Carlos Williams' ND Selected Shorter Poems on the street, apparently dumped, the acid-filled paper a lunch bag brown, taking it home and reading it aloud in the kitchen to Sandy, my partner, my voice felt like I was rescuing those wonderful poems back from the dead. When Momo's Press went out of business in the mid-eighties, and I had lots of inventory, as some kind of odd, populist missionary, I would occasionally place books on benches and ledges and sidewalks through out the City - hoping that other folks might have a similar sense of surprise, taking joy or some kind of mystery in reading a poem by someone, say, - Victor Cruz, or Jessica Hagedorn or myself - of whom most had probably had never heard - as such would still be true of 99% of those who write contemporary poems with usually such small readerships, no matter intense our immediate communities of attention. Thanks again, Hal. Stephen V Blog: http://stephenvincent.durationpress.com > Xmas > > Down Fifth Avenue in a taxi, > 2 weeks before Xmas, > my heart is > gone, gone away, > far away > There are > stars, lights, illuminated > frosting all over the fronts of > buildings, > everything is > an offering > ( for us, to buy ) > But even alone now, > a rising excitement > possesses me, > exhilaration, > warmth & I can remember when it was > all celebration for us, > both of us Jewish > but an excitement possessed us, > those years > of your health, > years of our striding > about the city together > choosing, > thinking: a gift for this one or that one > & you spent hours > inventing red & green scribbles > to cover your cards with: > declarations [of] > love & joy in friendship > & branches > of green & holly were hung in the house > & what > I miss now, the sound of your voice > your laughter > > [love from Hilda > December 25, 1982] > > > Note: A day or two ago, Lynda and I visited (once > again) the Strand, over on Broadway and came home > lugging books. In one of mine (*Ironwood* 20, found > on one of the outdoor $1 shelves and purchased to > replace my long-lost copy) was a twice-folded sheet > of 8 1/2 x 11 paper upon which the poem above was > typed, the bracketed portions written in in ink. At the > top center of the page is a piece of scotch tape that > looks like it may have been used to hang the poem up > somewhere, since there's nothing at the bottom of the > page to suggest it was used as a seal. At the bottom > left of the inside cover of the magazine, written in ink, > is "Christmas 1982" over "NYC," and in the right- > hand bottom corner the name Judy Epstein. > > I don't know if this poem was ever published, but it > might be one of a series of elegies Morley wrote for > her husband Stefan Wolpe, who had died in 1972. > Any information would be appreciated. > > 1/17/05 > > Hal > > Halvard Johnson > =============== > email: [log in to unmask] > website: http://home.earthlink.net/~halvard > blog: http://entropyandme.blogspot.com/