RUMINATION: Looking again at Stanley Kunitz
As never before, poets everywhere now have access to other poets’ work from every corner and thoroughfare of the past and present.
Amid the tidal wave of poetry, certain mainstay poets keep speaking to me, through the years.
Apropos of that, here’s a well-honed passage from “Instead of a Forward,” the introductory essay to a book titled “Passing Through: The Later Poems, New and Selected” by Stanley Kunitz:
“It disturbs me that twentieth century American poets seem largely reconciled to being relegated to the classroom — practically the only habitat in which most of us are conditioned to feel secure. It would be healthier if we could locate ourselves in the thick of life, at every intersection where values and meanings cross, caught in the dangerous traffic between self and universe.
“Poets are always ready to talk about the difficulties of their art. I want to say something about its rewards and joys. The poem comes in the form of a blessing — “like rapture breaking on the mind,” as I tried to phrase it in my youth. Through the years I have found this gift of poetry to be life-sustaining, life-enhancing, and absolutely unpredictable. Does one live, therefore, for the sake of poetry? No, the reverse is true: poetry is for the sake of life.”
Here’s a beautiful poem from that book, from Google Book’s limited preview.
I have never forgotten this poem from the American Poetry Review, back in 1974-76 when Kunitz was Consultant in Poetry to the Library of Congress (before the modern Poet Laureate program). He served another year as United States Poet Laureate in 2000. Stanley Kunitz (1905-2006) lived past 100, and he continues to be a mainstay in American poetry.
THE PORTRAIT
by Stanley Kunitz
My mother never forgave my father
for killing himself,
especially at such an awkward time
and in a public park,
that spring
when I was waiting to be born.
She locked his name
in her deepest cabinet
and would not let him out,
though I could hear him thumping.
When I came down from the attic
with the pastel portrait in my hand
of a long-lipped stranger
with a brave moustache
and deep brown level eyes,
she ripped it into shreds
without a single word
and slapped me hard.
In my sixty-fourth year
I can feel my cheek
still burning.
________________________
Stanley Kunitz obituary (.pdf)
Kunitz at 100, on “All Things Considered”
