Though Little Rock’s library branch hails you,
it offered only one volume—South Star—
that day I sought your words. A native who
won poetry’s Pulitzer, you’re worth far
more. Wanderer, you proved Wolfe wrong, coming
home again. Fame had chased you from New York
to England where you refused succumbing
to Pound’s editing; saw your free-verse work
in Imagist anthologies. Poets,
still, deeply sense roots—their churning life-flow;
hear the haunting rhythm of home; know it’s
vital for honest writing, like sun’s glow.
Yet bipolar disorder’s bitter knife
carved slowly through; bled you of hope and life.
Roger Armbrust
July 22, 2007
