Fresh Paint
Monday, April 04, 2005
Robert Creeley, 1926-2005
Of pneumonia, of all things. I am suddenly so very sad, and I have no wine.

Nice long obituary here, if an obit can be thought of as nice. UPDATE: Here's a link to other resources.

He was one of my advisors back in the poetry/art world of Buffalo. It was an intense place back then. I didn't know he finally left the place 2 years ago to go to Brown, and was now living in Providence, RI. I guess I'll always remember him right before his marriage to Penelope when he lived in an apartment on Fargo that was tiny and mostly books. I lived a few blocks away on Vermont. A couple of times we got together so he could read my work. I remember we went to the Anchor Bar for Buffalo Wings once or twice. I'd never had them before, and I still remember what they tasted like, and where we sat. He had this horrible off-white VW and drove very carefully, since he only had one eye.

I remember he'd just turned 49 and couldn't believe it. "I've always been, like, the kid," he said. He'd shake his head and run his fingers through his hair. I was probably a little in love with him, but it was a long time ago.

The last time I saw him was after a poetry reading here in Chicago at (I think) SAIC, or maybe MCA, and a bunch of us all went out afterwards and got wasted. It, too, was a long time ago.

Well, Bob. Now you know.

This was always one of my favorites (The Rain):

All night the sound had
come back again,
and again falls
this quiet, persistent rain.

What am I to myself
that must be remembered,
insisted upon
so often? Is it

that never the ease,
even the hardness,
of rain falling
will have for me

something other than this,
something not so insistent--
am I to be locked in this
final uneasiness.

Love, if you love me,
lie next to me.
Be for me, like rain,
the getting out

of the tiredness, the fatuousness, the semi-
lust of intentional indifference.
Be wet
with a decent happiness.

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