I just heard the news that W. D. Snodgrass passed away this morning at age 83. His addiction to innovation within the formal tradition made for a number of rollicking poems that look at first like light verse, although they cast disturbing shadows. And then there’s the barely contained ferocity of his grand cycle of dramatic monologues with Adolf Hitler at its hub, The Fuehrer Bunker. But my favorite of his poems remains “On a Painting of Van Gogh,” from his second, long out of print collection, After Experience; it remains the finest homage to Van Gogh I’ve ever read. Thanks, W. D.
Damnit, Joe! Well, thanks for letting us know. I met him a couple of times at Iowa and he was warm and personal. I’ve been thinking I should find his address (I’d tried but couldn’t) and call or write or something, just for auld lang syne. Now? Well, damnit. Something is missing in the air now.<BR/><BR/>"You look up, and who’s there?"<BR/>Berryman