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.