Pastiche: After Bill Knott’s
Selected Poems, 1960-2012*
I like how Bill Knott blows his mouth harp
blithely, as Stevens played his oboe. I call
them masters as I hum-blow my kazoo,
spin these verses out of mere asides
signed sotto mano by deaf-mute twins
parted at birth, but years later delivered
into each other’s care. Small wonder
my poems veer from rancor to abject
tenderness, marking over the years
a hidden rhythm like the heart of some
gravedigger scooping vacancies out
in the gathering dusk. Yet I (no Knott,
no Stevens) play whatever my little gift
allows, swaying in these masters’ shadows.
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* I’d love to link to Knott’s selected, but it’s gone from Lulu, as his blogs—art, poetry, prose—seem to have vanished from cyberspace. His sudden absence is a bit alarming, though he’s “gone dark” before only to surface downriver, his bespectacled, Orphic head held above the current as he sings. I want him to be well and trust that he is.
at our age<br />the problem with<br />dropping out<br /><br />is<br /><br />that (this time)<br />when we drop back <br />in<br /><br />we'll be dead !<br /><br />(those instruments that you mention<br /><br />as close an extension of one's<br />own<br />vocal/chords/voice<br /><br />as one can get …& use ?<br /><br />Bill's (most likely) either<br />throwing out The Junk &
as good a Friday notebook as can be, I'd say. thanks Joe.