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Popular Culture Review
that I got to know and work under. Either every day or every other day not only
would I show them something I was writing, but after awhile they would show
me their poems as well. We’d meet for coffee in late afternoons in the cafeteria
when no one else was around, or we’d meet for beers at one of the local bars
early in the evening, and we’d talk about life and literature knowing for us, in
our world of words, however they served us, there was no separating them.
George was older than Phil, and he was my mentor, teaching me both the care
for language and the need to clarify ideas. He questioned everything, and when I
questioned why he wore nice suits to all his classes, he told me that the frat
students, sitting in the back and not listening to anything he said, appreciated the
nice clothing...and that as an educator he felt he needed to give something to
every student, and that’s how he impressed them. Like many things George said,
there was something wise underneath the humor, and I learned from it,
especially as an educator. Phil introduced me to the poet James Wright, and I
remember my afternoon trip to the library when I took Wright’s books The
Branch Will Not Break and Shall We Gather At The River off the shelf and read
them, and felt my life change forever. Phil’s poems too were music, and he
taught me the power of the deep image as well. I saw him again years later, his
unique Greek chiseled face with all that black hair, on the cover of a Parade
Magazine that’s inserted in Sunday newspapers; it was the annual “salaries”
issue and under his photo were the words “printer, $22,000 a year.” I'm not
surprised, Anton, as you will find out if you keep writing serious literature, that
Phil’s talent did not lead somewhere in the literary world of this consumer
culture in America; in fact, Anton, that’s the norm. Recently, another poet I
know who’s spent his life writing charming, clever poems void of ideas and
insights, won the Pulitzer Prize. It is often the case that we reward artists whose
work never requires more than a shift in an easy chair to relieve the pressure on
the tailbone, work utterly forgettable, and comfortable enough to read to a group
of Christian Republicans. And those writers who passionately investigate issues
and challenge the status quo, no matter how lyrically, whose work leads to some
illumination or epiphany, aren’t really welcome in the appeasing world of
literary politics. My best work, Anton, such as the book-length poem about the
golden age of the human species passing because there is a force greater than
humanity that drives us, goes unpublished, sitting on the shelf, collecting dust
until I too become the dust on it. Okay, one for you Joey. Your cynicism is wellnoted. The serious writer is always a threat, hardly ever a factor. I remember
when I won The Shaughnessy Prize from The Modem Language Association for
outstanding book of the year on language, literature, and the teaching of writing,
and you asked “how much did the award pay?” When I told you five hundred
dollars, and showed you my royalty check from Duke University Press for
$47.50, you smiled and handed me the car insurance bill. Don't be smug, Joey;
these honors mean something. But it’s another honor, another award, years
earlier I want to write about. So let me begin.