Letter to the Editor
What a deep disappointment Michael Robbins’s so-called “review” was. Reading it was like being trapped at a cocktail party after a poetry reading in Chicago by, well, Michael Robbins. Full of the undergraduate spitefulness that we’ve come to expect from young white male poets given a soapbox and a deadline, it gave me the distinct feeling that I was reading a blog. But I wasn’t reading a blog, I was reading Poetry. It is clear that Robbins has not “lived and loved” (as Heaney says) that which he writes about. His snarky, whiny, self-satisfied tone is the Top 40 hit of his generation. I can only hope that Robbins will turn his attention away from criticism and back to his own PhD studies. And I will turn mine to the brilliant Clive James essay in the same issue.
Born in Portland, Oregon, poet Michael Dickman grew up with his mother and twin brother, poet Matthew Dickman, in Lents, a suburb of Portland. He earned a BA at the University of Oregon and an MFA at the University of Texas-Austin’s Michener Center for Writers. Dickman’s elegiac free verse...