[Michael Juster]

William Jay Smith, the former Poet Laureate, has passed away at 97. I had the honor of meeting him several times, and in particular remember how pleasant and engaged he was as a judge of a Newburyport Art Association poetry contest. A skilled and underappreciated formal poet, he also reminded us of the darkest parts of our country's history with Native Americans.

[Janice D. Soderling]

I am very sorry to hear this. I like his poems so much.

For those younger poetrs who might not be familiar with his work and life, http://www.poetryfoundation.org/bio/william-jay-smith

[Orwn Acra]

Galileo Galilei

Comes to knock and knock again
At a small secluded doorway
In an ordinary brain.

Into light the world is turning,
And the clocks are set for six;
And the chimney pots are smoking,
And the golden candlesticks.

Apple trees are bent and breaking,
And the heat is not the sun’s;
And the Minotaur is waking,
And the streets are cattle runs.

Galileo Galilei,
In a flowing, scarlet robe,
While the stars go down the river
With the turning, turning globe,

Kneels before the black Madonna
And the angels cluster round
With grave, uplifted faces
Which reflect the shaken ground

And the orchard which is burning,
And the hills which take the light;
And the candles which have melted
On the altars of the night.

Galileo Galilei
Comes to knock and knock again
At a small secluded doorway
In an ordinary brain.



Typewriter Town is an early example of typewriter literature (a cousin to concrete poetry) and ASCII art*.

*See also Willard Bain's Informed Sources.

[Susan McLean]

I admire his work and am sorry to hear of his death.

Susan

[Andrew Frisardi]

Sad to hear about this, but also happy to read about his full, long life and his many accomplishments. I hadn't known he wrote poetry for kids and will have to check that out. Also his memoir. Cummington, Mass., won't be the same without him.

http://www.nytimes.com/2015/08/20/bo...ies-at-97.html

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=U35Jcq3Zvz4

[Ed Shacklee]

The Closing of the Rodeo

The lariat snaps, the cowboy rolls
xxHis pack, and mounts and rides away.
Back to the land the cowboy goes.

Plumes of smoke from the factory sway
xxIn the setting sun. The curtain falls,
A train in the darkness pulls away.

Good-bye, says the rain on the iron roofs.
xxGood-bye, say the barber poles.
Dark drum the vanishing horses’ hooves.

xxxxx- William Jay Smith

[Ed Shacklee]

I suspect most of you know it, but this is perhaps his most famous poem:


American Primitive

Look at him there in his stovepipe hat,
His high-top shoes, and his handsome collar;
Only my Daddy could look like that,
And I love my Daddy like he loves his Dollar.

The screen door bangs, and it sounds so funny -
There he is in a shower of gold;
His pockets are stuffed with folding money,
His lips are blue, and his hands feel cold.

He hangs in the hall by his black cravat,
The ladies faint, and the children holler:
Only my Daddy could look like that,
And I love my Daddy like he loves his Dollar.

xxxxx- William Jay Smith

[Terese Coe]

I'm sorry for your loss, Michael.

This paragraph quoted in the NYTimes link is a superb poem in itself!

“Everything here on the street that dead-ended in the sinkhole and a lane known as Tin Can Alley seemed reduced to black and white,” Mr. Smith wrote. “It was winter and cold; snow drifted over the high front steps and swept down into the sinkhole. The beds in the front room were covered with white crocheted bedspreads: the whole white world inside, poised against the outer white, was broken by the black of the coal in the scuttle that fed the little stove that kept us warm. The smokestack on top of the house was not high enough, and the wind forced the smoke down into the room. The other black, somber note in this white world was my father’s pistol, which he brought forth from its holster sometimes after he had been drinking.”

[Michael Cantor]

Like Mike Juster, I remember being impressed by William Jay Smith when he judged our poetry contest and read at Powow. He was a gentleman and a gentle man, devoid of ego, and very open about the problems of evaluating a basketful of poems.