9 July 2018:
I’ve finally gotten around to reading Robert Bly, like an easterner who finally travels west to see the Grand Canyon or marvel at the other ocean.
That is how it feels, arriving late to the party.
For me, James Wright, William Stafford, even Ted Kooser, they have been like the easterner’s D.C. or Myrtle Beach, or maybe Smoky Mountains.
And they are names I know, poems I’ve read for years.
But now—to continue the metaphor I made up for myself—the west has arrived. I stand along the Bright Angel trail, looking down, sorry it’s taken me so long to get here.