Stanley, he grew his garden with dirt and words. He watered it with his own sweat, spit, and tears. Poetry is immortal and Stanley Kunitz, after a century plus almost one, was almost as well. But who says his ghost isn't already gracing the Poet's House, his garden? I just opened the Collected Poems and saw him, reminding me of “The Scene”: you die. You're born again. . . . He's immortal after all.
Originally Published: June 23, 2006