Now that the poets are dying and rhymes are being made out of chunks of broken pottery fitted together electronically, it's good to see poems finding their own life out in the world, without the poets getting in their way. Why, it's positively brazen. The electronic May edition of Poetry tells it like it is, spotlighting Ilya Kaminsky, who opens it up with the lost leader:
I am not a poet.
Thanks for the tip, Ilya.
Today I suggest a journey to the Banff Centre for the Arts, a massive project for replacing the Rocky Mountains with hollow versions suitable for human inhabitation. Do note the poems grazing around the edges of the project, like vampire deer or something. No wonder the humans are locking themselves away and trying to figure out irony, a century after Eliot started to develop his infamous distaste for peaches.
Gad, even they are out in the world!
Prufrock must be turning over in his grave! (Aw, go ahead and click on that last link and read the last line of iambic pentameter written in English.)
