Today we post our funeral song. Between the sandwich boards marking deaths of the bulemic Terry Schiavo and the actor Karyl Wojtyla, Robert Creeley, poet, died last week in Marfa Texas. Here's some of his poetry:
And she opens the door of her cadillac,
I step in back,
and we're gone.
She turns me on -
There are very huge stars, man, in the sky,
and from somewhere very far off someone hands
me a slice of apple pie.
"He'll risk all on pure openness," said Hugh Kenner, "and it is, mysteriously, triumphantly, poetry." Mysteriously? Hardly. Creeley worked hard all his life writing and supporting young experimental, fresh-thinking writers and preserving the best cultural traditions of the 20th century in an increasingly stagnant America. He stayed always in contact with reality and poetry and brought them together for the benefit of each. It seems like there was no mystery about it anyway.
Check the tribute page from time to time at Conjunctions, to see how poets and readers are remembering Creeley from around the country.