Stanley Kunitz dies at 100

Former poet laureate Stanley Kunitz is dead. I once did a report on him and even wrote him a letter to which he never responded. But I still like his poetry. I'm sure he will be missed by the poetry world. Here is a link to an article about him:

http://msnbc.msn.com/id/12801949/

Here is a poem:

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.

Apartment

Well, we finally found an apartment! It's in Fairfax, VA about 1 mile from the school (GMU). I'm very excited because it seemed like it was taking forever to find one. There's a pool and a workout room and storage space.

Well, that's about it for now.

Hope everyone who reads this is doing good.

New Poem

Here's a new, rough poem that I'm working on.

HI DAD!!

Here's the poem:

Reeling in DC

We were the dead
and the living had come to size us up.
~Spencer Reece


Let the fever play out
the madness of a fever’s
kaleidoscope. I think that
summer is here. I’m in DC.
Today it reached 82 degrees.

I was carded when I bought
Brokeback Mountain. Only
in the Midwest, at a Wal-mart.
I realized that queer theory
was right. And this movie
is a step forward, not back.
So I pull out my card and smile.

All the suits walking down
Crystal Drive ignore me as
I push on. The hired help says
hello. I push on down the block.

The woman with her floppy breasts
walks crooked. I write poetry
virtually across her face.

In the apartment there are children
playing hide and seek with their
father. I hide myself, in my room,
a temporary home.

I write out a formula for death
and hand it to the nearest person.
They do not understand.
We, here, are already dead—bathing
in sunlight, cancer taking over
all our cells. When the living come
down as angels you will not know it.

New Short Poem

Here's a new short poem.

They Keep Kneeling

Keep kneeling and stay stuck inside
the original sin. I’m watching
the sky close for comets and falling
planets. I let the night enter my body.
I wait for 9 o’clock to feed me.
When I woke up the next morning
there was a baby on my chest
and a cry in my gut.