from the diary: “Tuesday 6/16/87
“I have turned on to poetry. Wow. It’s like suddenly it makes sense. I checked out The Selected Poetry of Hayden Carruth, and I love reading it aloud. You just have to read poetry aloud.”
Part of it was that so much poetry was disappointing me. I couldn’t get a grasp on it. What was so wonderful?
There were poems I liked. But reading poetry was like listening to a radio station where most the time you turn it on you wish you hadn’t. Just once in awhile along came a song that made you want to rush down to the record store and jump around outside waiting for it to open.
Hayden Carruth has his own website. You can read some of his poems there. Reading them now doesn’t give me a thrill. Curious. I’ll look for the Selected again and see if it’s there the poems lurk. I have to say, though, I love that name. Hayden Carruth. It’s poem enough, innit?
A little more than a year after I read his book the poet committed suicide. He tells about it on his website.