“Ah, summer, what power you have to make us suffer and like it.”
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I gave up on new poetry myself 30 years ago when most of it began to read like coded messages passing between lonely aliens in a hostile world.
Poetry is so vital to us until school spoils it.
Except for politics, no business is scrutinized more exhaustively than journalism.
What the New Yorker calls home would seem like a couple of closets to most Americans, yet he manages not only to live there but also to grow trees and cockroaches right on the premises.
