Coming to the Statehouse to Honor Galway Kinnell Under Washington, his portrait, in this chamber, the well of the House, we’ve come to honor one of ours. Word-neighbor. Poem-maker. Among other things, champion of using is three times rightly and consecutively in a verse’s line. Here, where our state’s once chief executive welcomes us and asks what our state would be, if we, wall-to-wall, poets were voted in to caste our votes. We’re sitting at their desks with the aye and nay switch close at hand. And listening to his words read back to him. By our country’s best representatives. I mean his writing, singing heirs. Who, as Frost said, say his poems into our listening air. Our poet, sitting among us, holding his hand to his ear, speaker-like. Although you can be sure he can read their lips, for a scent of bear, love-moaning from a bedroom. a field’s lipstick of blueberries. As well as the pause between words. Where he lives, too. Here in our fortunate Vermont. We can fill a well with the songs of Galway Kinnell. Who we can’t do without. Who’s not here to sit for his portrait. Who still speaks in and out. Who rises to our long standing applause.
Posted on: Fri, 08 Aug 2014 01:11:28 +0000
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