Memory

While undertaking a 15-minute workout on the elliptical machine at the fitness center, I read a dozen poems from Chris Forhan’s 2003 Morse Prize-winning book, The Actual Moon, the Actual Stars. Some poetry lovers might regard this as a shallow gesture, perhaps even a kind of sacrilege. Of course I intend no such disrespect to the high art of poesy, or as Dylan Thomas so memorably wrote, the “craft or sullen art.” The word “sullen” here means “silent,” and the North Idaho Athletic Club is no such site. No, I was reading and enjoying such poems as “Piet,” “Dumbwaiter to Heaven,” and “Some Words for … » More …