The fiftieth Tuesday Poem I posted yesterday on Patreon was written with a nod to "Fear and Fame" by Philip Levine, so I'll feature that today. Thanks to Sharon Bryan for posting it.
Showing posts with label Philip Levine. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Philip Levine. Show all posts
Wednesday, November 29, 2023
Wednesday, January 18, 2023
Your Wednesday Morning Poetry
Today, I'm attending a funeral for someone who died on the job. Time to bring out the poem "What Work Is" by Philip Levine in his memory. Thanks once again to the Poetry Foundation.
Tuesday, February 17, 2015
R.I.P. Philip Levine
I only got the news the other day of Philip Levine's death. I've been thinking about it whenever I have a quiet moment.
I have often had a hard time keeping up with all my poetry heroes, but while in school, Philip Levine was different. I was hooked with his National Book Award winning What Work Is and absorbed as much as I could.
A Walk With Tom Jefferson, its visceral "Dog Poem" still one of my favorites.
The Bread of Time, his collection of autobiographical essays, its style of prose I miserably tried to imitate as part of a class assignment. His chapter on being taught by John Berryman still informs me today.
The Simple Truth, its seminal poems I read a year or two earlier in The New Yorker. I continue to read "On the Meeting of Garcia Lorca and Hart Crane" to open Stone Soup Poetry every now and again.
Don't Ask, a collection of interviews with Levine, including accounts of wrestling with an angel (the only believable account I've ever read), his work ethic on each poem, and the craziest answer to a question about Adrienne Rich I've ever read. In a perfect world, more frustrated poets in colleges across America would be passing their dogeared library copy around a college study hall.
The Mercy, it's family-focused poetry part of the reading he gave in Salem last year for the Massachusetts Poetry Festival. It was the first and only time I ever saw him live.
I missed the opportunity to see him once at the Grolier Poetry Bookshop years ago. It likely would have been a smaller audience than Salem's. It could have also been a much better chance to speak one-on-one with the poet whose work was such an influence on me that I blamed his 1-2 pages of concise lines on my own verbosity (it took my thickheaded self years to understand the difference between long poems and rambling ones).
I was in attendance for his Salem reading. I didn't want to purchase a book I already had just to talk with him. I didn't want to risk spoiling my connection to him and his work by way of blubbering in front of him. I had seen and heard my hero read, and that was enough.
I have often had a hard time keeping up with all my poetry heroes, but while in school, Philip Levine was different. I was hooked with his National Book Award winning What Work Is and absorbed as much as I could.
A Walk With Tom Jefferson, its visceral "Dog Poem" still one of my favorites.
The Bread of Time, his collection of autobiographical essays, its style of prose I miserably tried to imitate as part of a class assignment. His chapter on being taught by John Berryman still informs me today.
The Simple Truth, its seminal poems I read a year or two earlier in The New Yorker. I continue to read "On the Meeting of Garcia Lorca and Hart Crane" to open Stone Soup Poetry every now and again.
Don't Ask, a collection of interviews with Levine, including accounts of wrestling with an angel (the only believable account I've ever read), his work ethic on each poem, and the craziest answer to a question about Adrienne Rich I've ever read. In a perfect world, more frustrated poets in colleges across America would be passing their dogeared library copy around a college study hall.
The Mercy, it's family-focused poetry part of the reading he gave in Salem last year for the Massachusetts Poetry Festival. It was the first and only time I ever saw him live.
I missed the opportunity to see him once at the Grolier Poetry Bookshop years ago. It likely would have been a smaller audience than Salem's. It could have also been a much better chance to speak one-on-one with the poet whose work was such an influence on me that I blamed his 1-2 pages of concise lines on my own verbosity (it took my thickheaded self years to understand the difference between long poems and rambling ones).
I was in attendance for his Salem reading. I didn't want to purchase a book I already had just to talk with him. I didn't want to risk spoiling my connection to him and his work by way of blubbering in front of him. I had seen and heard my hero read, and that was enough.
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