It was this class, English 399, Advanced Poetry Workshop, that actually led me to cut back on the amount of poetry I was writing. That is not meant to say anything bad about the professor, my dear friend Dr. Jean Anaporte; rather, it just showed me how much work I should be putting into my verse. I had always written verse because it was quick and easy. Once I learned it wasn’t supposed to be, I figured I’d just spend that time writing theory.
“He” is a favorite piece from that time, which I no longer consider the end of my poetic years.
He, who sat up late nights near finals
In that semester after the passing of his father;
Who worked at achieving a perfect union
of creative written flair and dry business form;
Who saturated his body with sinus meds and caffeine,
Cannibis and nicotine;
Who fell into a rush of The Floyd, all The Wall and its Final Cut,
Atom Heart and Animals;
Who took time to walk into the springtime street
And search for a moon that was not there;
Who had presence enough to return to the keyboard
And faith enough to meet a deadline;
He is the one who hopes that God is understanding,
And widely read.
22 April 2001—English 399