| O
Raptor i.m. Kenneth Burke (1897-1995) Philip Fried |
|
|||
One weekend, thirty years ago, at Stony Brook, the wild-eyed chatterer Kenneth Burke flapped in a classroom like a trapped falcon as feathered with ideas he hurtled into wall after wall, more walls than we'd ever imagined, while scores of us, hallooing teachers and students, circled beneath him, flailing at the open window crying, There, you can fly out there ... Not hearing or listening, he declared between collisions that he often awakened with words, words streaming through his brain, Bang! So many |
cars in Williams's poems because New Jersey's the traffic state, the entrance to everywhere, Bang! This should be easier, we pleaded, eyes widening, just a room with chairs, a window ... At last we inveigled him into a guest eyrie pretending he was a bird wounded with time - it was late, he was near 80 - and needed rest but his beak kept sipping Scotch and tearing at questions, Ouch! Our craniums. Is there a sociologist in the house, he needs more meat, says reading the "Ancient Mariner" - my wrist has the imprint of his sinewy  |
|||
