THE SPECTATOR
Utica College
English Department Alumni Newsletter
Winter 2010/2011
Confessions of a Word Surgeon
Rebecca (Barber) Harkins ’89
Using the scalpel, she inscribed
and dissected words, ink flowed,
and suddenly, completely unex-
pectedly, she became a renowned
writer, a word surgeon par excel-
lence. That is the romantic ver-
sion. The reality is a bit more, well,
realistic.
In 1989, I was a homemaker
with a BA in English, two young
children, and nowhere to go with
my degree. I had joined the Mo-
hawk Valley Quilt Club and sub-
mitted short articles, blurbs really,
to their newsletter. I volunteered
for the library position in which I
maintained two carts full of books
and magazines and ordered new
ones as needed. I was asked to
write a review for the Kirkland Art
Center’s fabric arts display. I had
also joined the RoadRunners Club
of America in Utica and submit-
ted to the SpliTimes. In 1992, I
received an award in the creative
writing category, as an honorable
mention, in the Eastern Division.
One year, while ordering ma-
terials for the quilt club library,
I discovered a magazine entitled
Miniature Quilts. Our president,
Carolyn Beam, had just presented
her miniature quilts to the group
during one of the meetings. I sent
a query letter to the editor regard-
ing writing an interview with this
unique lady. Carolyn had sent
in slides of her work at the same
time, although I did not know it. I
received a letter stating the editors
had received her slides and would
be quite happy for me to write the
article. It didn’t hit home until I
received the check. I was now a
published and paid author.
Due to some complex issues in
my life at the time, I was unable to
pursue this new endeavor. I moved
to Texas in 1995 and, over time,
wrote small pieces for Literacy
Volunteers of America and The
Huntsville Youth Orchestra, both
of which I was involved in whether
as secretary, newsletter editor, or
volunteer. These small submissions
not only helped refine my writing
style, but let me explore various
kinds of writing. This started my
stint as a freelance secretary.
In 2007, I started writing a
monthly column entitled “Morn-
ing Reflections” for our neigh-
Editor
Barbara Witucki
Associate Professor of English
Contributors
John Cormican
Jason Denman
Gary Leising
Rebecca (Barber) Harkins ’89
Melody Hallenbeck Nadeau ’04
Joe Perry ’90
The Spectator is published
bi-annually by the English
Department at Utica College
Send correspondence regarding
The Spectator to:
  Barbara Witucki
  Utica College
  1600 Burrstone Road
  Utica, NY 13502-4892
  Voice: (315) 792-3829
  E-mail: bwitucki@utica.edu
borhood newsletter, in which
I attempted my own “modest
proposal” regarding issues close
to our hearts. I have heard good
responses.
In 2008, I signed up with Elance.
com as a provider. As such, I of-
fer my writing services in various
categories. The majority of my jobs
are in the Writing and Translating
category: articles, resumes, white
papers, ghostwriting, and more. A
person wanting an article written
or a book proofread, for example,
continued on page 2
Confessions of a Word Surgeon continued from page 1
would post a job on the website and
providers would bid on the job. One
or more providers are chosen to do
the work and are then paid when the
work is completed. The majority of
the work is anonymous ghostwriting
(as opposed to getting a small byline),
and the money is very minimal.
I became a member of the Interna-
tional Association of Administrative
Professionals to expand my knowl-
edge base in the secretarial realm.
Their trade magazine, OfficePro, listed
an email for submitting queries to
the editor. I suggested an idea for an
article on filing since electronic filing
was becoming as important as paper
filing. The editor liked my idea. Only
professional (published) writers were
paid. I mentioned my published
article from 1992 and hoped that it
was enough to put me in the paid
category. It was. My first check was
for $700. I was floored. I have written
two other articles for OfficePro since
then and have made my name, sort
of, in the small circle I run with.
I’m currently a member of the
Woodlands Writers Guild, a critique
group for fiction writers. In 2009, the
Winter Contest was called “Five – in
– One” where the floor was open to
five categories of short stories in one
contest. I placed first in two of the
five (Romance and Epiphanies). Hav-
ing established myself, I became the
newsletter editor (and later, secretary)
of the Guild, which includes the
creator of the MLA system, several
screenwriters with contacts in Hol-
lywood, a garden man who’s written
many articles and blogs on Texas
gardening, and so on. I will be giv-
ing a small seminar on Social Media
to the Guild, as many members are
pre-platform and pre-computer. It
wasn’t until this year that I’ve heard
of “platform,” although some sources
date the concept as far back as 2008.
Fundsforwriters.com editor C. Hope
Clark has been pointing out in
her editorials that publishers want
authors to have some kind of Web
presence whether on Twitter, Face-
book, or some other social media site
as well as have a blog or website with
high traffic numbers. This, publish-
ers say, is platform. It comes down
to wanting the authors to do more
of the promoting of the book than
the publishers. We are learning this
together.
How did I get here? Stubborn-
ness and perseverance. I kept writ-
ing no matter what. I joined groups
and wrote for their newsletters. I
devoured literature. I read the gurus
who wrote for money such as Bob Bly
(copywriting) and Michael Stelzner
(white papers). I took technical writ-
ing and computer courses. I read old
books on grammar and literature.
(My antiques are 75 to 100 years
old.) I reviewed my coursework from
Cormican, Matza, and my other UC
profs. I lived and breathed writ-
ing and reading. Besides writing for
magazines, I am enjoying writing for
contests — short stories and poems
— for fame and fortune. Or at least a
portion thereof.
Learning to deal with rejection has
been the most challenging. Elance.
com is not a place to make money;
2
it’s a place to learn how to compete,
deal with impossible “bosses,” and
be rejected. It took me six months to
get my first job, and two days to wish
I hadn’t. At twenty bids per month,
that’s a lot of rejection. I’ve learned
what my character is really made of.
I won’t bid on “write my term paper”
requests — even for Ph.D. wanna-
bees who want someone else to do
their research. I will edit and work
with someone who is really trying.
I’ll take a cheap job if it will add to
my profile, but not at one dollar for
ten articles of 700 words each. I’ve
learned to be patient. Why is this im-
portant? If I’m going to write a novel
or a nonfiction book, I need to expect
rejection letters. I can’t afford to be
thin-skinned. I am competing with
thousands of others, especially now
that rules have changed and authors
are expected to have a platform with
a thousand or so followers before a
publisher will look at the manuscript.
And, of course, the debate on self-
publishing versus publishing house
continues.
Whether waiting for publication of
a novel, collection of short stories or
poems, or submission of magazine ar-
ticles anywhere, there are a few things
to keep in mind: the competition is
fierce; rejection is common; it will
take “forever;” the thrill of success
is worth it; writing to be published
is not for the faint of heart; bulldog
tenacity is a gift to be nurtured.
 A Letter from Beijing
If the band opens with “Fortunate Son,” you know it’s gonna be a good set.
Melody Hallenbeck Nadeau ’04

Well that’s my opener for this Bei-

jing update, folks…not sure whether
to be cheery or gloomy but both
seem appropriate after a month away
from home.
So, AJ and I were really really
wishing for some honest-to-good-
ness American food tonight…noth-
ing fancy, like you’d find at “Grand-
ma’s Kitchen,” but just a burger or
fries or a chicken Caesar salad. I got
the salad and he got the wrap.
At Lush (honest, it’s the real name
of the bar/restaurant near our of-
fice) there was a new band for “live
band night”—pretty sure that’s the
name—a bunch of young-ish guys
who turned out to be AMAZING!
We enjoyed it so much. It was a lot
like Lark St. without Aunt Dorie times a month if we made mini- before I left! AJ had plenty of time
and Uncle Dave (which, if you mum wage. Every now and then, to go home, change clothes, come
think too much, is actually rather in class, I’m reminded of where my back, go shopping…
pathetic). Whatever. The band was students have come from by some The girl who did my nails was
good, the food was good, the re- little thing...Thursday we had a very good and spoke some English
laxation went very well. Lush has dialog where one woman said she as well. She told me that she likes
several awards on the wall—Beijing’s was “doing taxes.” Nobody under- studying English but doesn’t have
best weekly happy hour specials, best stood taxes, so I told them they are time for it now. She was very ex-
student hangout, best bar food…. money paid to the government to cited to learn that I’m an English
guess that sums it up. We were, help maintain society. Blank stares teacher—so much that she asked me
hands down, the oldest people in the all around...it is very possible that to “write English name” for her. I
place—and possibly the only ones neither they, nor anyone they have couldn’t figure out what she wanted
who knew all of the lyrics, including ever lived with, has been fortunate for a while, then I realized that she
the lead singer. enough to make an income that wanted me to NAME her! Her
For a little hint at the income requires the payment of taxes. And Chinese name was something like
disparity that exists here—migrant after reviewing my first paycheck, Seia Sho, so I though…Samantha!
workers, who are a large part of the I’m pretty sure that the rates begin at She couldn’t say Samantha, but “very
Chinese labor force, were featured 2,000 yuan monthly. liked” Sammie. Long story short—I
on the business news a couple of Anyway...just before dinner, I now have a nail technician named
nights ago—because China has just braved the back alleys and upper Sammie. All of the other girls in the
raised the minimum wage to 900 rooms and got my first Chinese shop laughed, but she assured me
yuan (about $133 US) per month. manicure and pedicure. We found that she very much liked the new
Our food alone (not including any a little shop off a hair salon and I English name and made me write
drinks but water) cost 90 yuan at sat down for what they said was a it down and say it several times. At
Lush. We would only get to eat ten one-hour session…about two hours least that solves the mystery of how
continued on page 4

3
Letter from Beijing continued from page 3
all of those Chinese students who
come to New York get American
names—some random lady in a nail
salon arbitrarily picks one and—voi-
là—you have an English name!
We are missing home a lot these
days—I heard someone learning to
play saxophone outside of the office
yesterday, working on a rendition of
“America the Beautiful” throughout
the day. Over and over and over.
Sure made me homesick, especially
when the Nadeaus are gathering in
Ticonderoga for “The Best Fourth in
the North,” and the Hallenbecks are
gathering at Verona Beach for who-
knows-what reunion insanity. The
band guys gave us the name of the
club where they’ll be playing on the
4th, and the pastor from the Beijing
International Christian Fellowship
called today—who knows if they
may have a cookout going too? It
could go either way. Oh, and some
guy from DC named Chris is throw-
ing a pool party at a swanky hotel in
the Central Business District…150
yuan gets us transportation, LOTS
of drinks, swimming, and, if the flier
is accurate, an after-party with Eva
Longoria. Hmmm. Better throw
Chris off the short list.
It’s a bit of a toss-up…when I
work, I know the kids benefit from
me being there, even if I do feel
like it’s a cross between The Twi-
light Zone and Let’s Make a Deal
(because there are too many bizarre
things to describe), although AJ has
definitely tried. I really need to have
EVERYTHING in my purse, in
case I’m called on to define some-
thing like “Charge it” or “Sewing.”
The kids are, have been, and will
be rewarding, and remind me daily
of why I’m here. But then there are
the very long sessions in the office
doing weekly paperwork, writing
lesson plans (not to mention invent-
ing curriculum), and the times at
or en route to home when I get the
impression that there is NOTH-
ING dust-free in Beijing. And, by
the way, there are NO women in my
office, unless we count three twenty-
something part-time Mandarin
teachers who I’m going to be teach-
ing conversational English to begin-
ning next week.
Also, of course, I miss my kids
and grandbabies incredibly. I am
honestly not sure how people do this
for years and years at a time. If you
ask me, I will say that I am certain
this is where we belong—there were
too many “coincidences” that led us
here for me to think otherwise. And
when I see a sentence in the home-
work that says, “We loving the teach
very much,” it doesn’t hurt. When
the kid who doesn’t really care if he
stays or goes lights up for AJ’s tutor-
ing sessions, that’s pretty awesome,
too. I’ve heard a cheesy preacher
saying that rings true at times like
these...the will of God won’t take
you where the grace of God can’t
keep you. I am finding this to be
quite true.
I heard a rumor today that the
school closes over Christmas for a
week or so. Not sure how the guy
4
came to this conclusion, seeing that
we’ve only been open since March,
but…wouldn’t that be amazing, to
be able to come home instead of
wallowing in limbo between Nar-
nia and Nirvana? One can only
hope. And by the way, yesterday we
finally found ground coffee—AJ
had bought me a VERY expensive,
VERY tiny coffee maker, only to dis-
cover that the stores that sell the pots
don’t really understand about the
coffee….Starbucks carried some for
around $50 a pound…not happen-
ing…then, finally, there was a small
brick of French coffee at a market
where they have some imported
goods. It tasted AMAZING this
morning. Now all I need are some
authentic Italian herbs…basil, oreg-
ano, parsley, maybe some Parmesan
cheese…and I will be in business.
Italian night, here we come!
Whatever happens, I’ll let you
know how the concert goes…or how
the pastor’s barbecue tastes. Eva will
have to wait for another time. Don’t
you wish every day was the Fourth
of July?
(I have been working on my Ph.D.
in curriculum and instruction at
University of Albany for the past
several years. I went there for the
TESOL MS program, earned that
degree in 2006, and am now ABD
in Curriculum and Instruction with
a language education concentra-
tion. I was recently hired at a small
NGO in Beijing to teach English to
orphaned youth.)
 Reflections Upon Emergent Occasions
John Cormican, Professor of English

Some of my former students think

highly of me; some of my former
students hate me. I like to think
that I might actually have earned
the positive responses of the for-
mer group, but I am quite certain
that some of the second group are
correct in their feelings toward me.
Although I see myself as a teacher
rather than a scholar and I try to
teach the students in light of their
current abilities, I too often fail. In
the medieval world where I live,
pride is a sin, so God provided an
antidote to pride about the time I
received the Crisafulli Distinguished
Teaching Award this year by having
a student in one of my classes last
spring write the most scathing com-
ments on a student evaluation that I
have ever received.
While I appreciate receiving the campaigned for me to get the award, his mother criticized him for talking
Crisafulli Award, I am not terribly I suspected part of the motivation about himself during the campaign.
impressed by myself for having was embarrassment that I had been When I heard that I laughed because
received it. There are a large number at Utica College so long and not I understood that kind of thinking.
of my colleagues who deserve it as received the teaching award. Besides, When I graduated from high school
much or more than I do. Besides, since I am so old, the college might as and received all kinds of awards at
while there have been some really well give me the award before I die. my commencement, I had to leave
good teachers who have received it Among the more astute comments my seat to walk across the stage to
in the past, there have been a few I received from one of my former receive each one, and my mother,
who received it who were not con- students was, “I know you don’t put who had been brought up a Quaker,
sidered by many people to be good much stock in such awards.” The was embarrassed. After the gradua-
teachers at all. truth is that I feel uncomfortable tion, she said to me, “Couldn’t you
I am particularly appreciative of calling attention to myself. I grew up have let some other people have some
my colleague Professor Jason Den- in a culture that the anthropologist of the recognition?”
man’s efforts in getting the award for Ruth Benedict would call “Apollo- Therefore, while I appreciate
me and of the praise and congratula- nian” as opposed to “Dionysian,” and receiving the Crisafulli Award, I am
tions from former students who have which valued living in harmony with rather uncomfortable about it too. I
called or written me since the award others rather than achieving some el- still don’t impress me that much.
was announced. When Jason asked evated position. When the first Presi-
if he could nominate me and then dent Bush was running for president,

5
 Reminiscences
Joe Perry ’90
I met John Cormican
when I was a first-semester
freshman at UC back in the
fall of 1977. My first class
with him was English 103 –
Introduction to the English
Language, which John still
teaches.
Back then, I had a habit
of drawing cartoons in the
margins of my notebook,
and during one of John’s
classes I had absent-mind-
edly sketched a fellow asleep at his desk, his face in his
arms, Z’s emitting from the top of his head. Passing my
desk, John saw the depiction and asked, in his character-
istic sotto voce, “Is that you… or me?” I knew then that I
could work with this guy.
That voice, though. Even with the relatively sharp senses
of an eighteen-year-old, there were times when I could
barely hear the man. I can recall, early in our association,
standing with him in the backyard of his house on Higby
Road, nodding politely as he watered his tomatoes and
muttered some piece of sardonic wisdom I couldn’t begin
to make out over the gentle hiss of the garden hose.
Keats House
Gary Leising, Associate Professor of English
This past summer, with the support of a Harold T. Clark
Fellowship from Utica College, I spent some time in London
working on a small collection of poems inspired by the British
capital’s places, art, and people. I was there in May, right after
our Spring semester ended. As a poet, one essential stop on my
itinerary was Keats House in Hampstead, just north of London.
This is the place where Keats lived for two years, wrote some
poems (“Ode to a Nightingale” in particular inspires visitors to
pause beneath the grounds’ black mulberry tree to imagine the
bird’s song and fall, albeit morbidly, “half in love with easeful
Death”), and met and fell in love with Fanny Brawne (whose
family occupied half of the house).
Though I had been in London a few times in the past several
years, I had yet to visit the house known as Wentworth Place
until it was rechristened in honor of its most famous resident.
It had been undergoing massive renovations, repairing struc-
tural damage. When I stepped off the number 24 bus, the first
thing I saw was a chain restaurant with a plaque explaining
6
(Based on her observations of Noam Chomsky, my
wife Karen contends that muttering is a disorder shared
by all linguists. I swear I am not pursuing my M.A. in
the discipline just to annoy her.)
I’m not certain, but I may be the only one of John’s stu-
dents to have taken his History of the English Language
course twice and lived to tell the tale. The first time was
in the Spring of my Freshman year, in a section filled with
raucous East Utica seniors and Joe Caruso (who was any-
thing but raucous); the second as a junior, I believe, and a
student assistant. Of this experience, I can recall a signa-
ture Cormican test question on the legendary Hengest
and Horsa that went something like this:
Identify two brothers in early English history named
“Horse.” (Pre-Bonanza.)
Needless to say, there is much more that is memorable
about my association with this man over the past thirty
years. I have benefitted immensely from John’s instruc-
tion, his counsel, and his friendship. And now that I’m
working my way through morphology once again, I can
finally appreciate the value of learning that damned Swa-
hili affix matrix.
that its building was once the site of the bookstore where, as a
young man, George Orwell worked. Hampstead, like the rest
of greater London, is steeped in literary history. From the bustle
and noise of South End Green, I made my way uphill along
the edge of Hampstead Heath, its walkways covered by arching
trees (those tree-rich paths, covered with winter snow, suppos-
edly inspired C.S. Lewis to create his mythic land of Narnia),
eventually coming to a quiet street: Keats Grove.
With the exception of a small group of pensioners reading
poems to each other in the house’s largest parlour, the place was
quiet, perfect for contemplating Keats’s short life. In the smaller
parlour—the one where Keats did his reading and writing—a
copy of a portrait of the poet by Joseph Severn hung above the
fireplace. The original is in London’s National Portrait Gallery.
Though Severn, who nursed Keats on his deathbed in Italy,
worked on this oil painting after the poet’s death, Severn said it
reproduced the posture Keats struck in that very parlour right
after he had written “Ode to a Nightingale”; observing Keats
continued on page 8
 Coffee and Old Books
Jason Denman, Associate Professor of English
I spent the month of June en-
sconced in the Folger Shakespeare
Library in Washington D.C. Family,
friends, and colleagues kept asking
the same two basic questions: 1)
How’s the coffee there? and 2) Do
they make you wear gloves?
The first question is predicated on
a misleading association. The Folger
Shakespeare Library has nothing
whatever to do with the coffee com-
pany. Henry Clay Folger made his
money with Standard Oil, not in the
coffee business; his library opened in
1932, two years after he died, hous-
ing the largest collection of the print-
ed works of Shakespeare in the world
as well as a theatre loosely modeled
on the Blackfriars and an exhibition
hall. While I was there, the exhibit
focused on the English conception of
the watery part of the world during
the intense explorations of the early
modern period. Despite the “Shake-
speare” in the name of the place, the
library is, much more importantly
for my purposes, a repository of early
modern literature in general: If you
want a book that hasn’t been re-
printed since, say, 1620, the Folger is
one of the first three or four places in
the world that you would go looking
for it. Receiving one of their fellow-
ships gives scholars funds and access
to the collection; I had the additional
luxury of summer fellowship sup-
port from Utica College that helped
me get a new laptop and work hard
without glancing anxiously at my
checking account. The library cof-
fee, by the way, was ho-hum, but
who would complain when you have
every resource you could need and a
supportive, resourceful staff on hand?
As for the gloves, the answer is
no. I never saw a pair. Two sum-
mer visits I made to the William
Andrews Clark Memorial Library
in Los Angeles a few years ago were
also glove-less. Early modern English
books are actually pretty rough-and-
tumble creations. To be sure, they
require care—most obviously stor-
age at the proper temperature and
humidity and under the correct light.
But the paper they made in the 16th
and 17th centuries happens to be an
extraordinarily high-quality, low-
acid cotton rag that holds up really
beautifully. The library has signs
asking you to keep your hands clean.
V-shaped foam stands protect fragile
bindings and shoe-strings full of tiny
lead weights help keep books open
without forcing them. Gloves are
only for very special circumstances,
or, ironically, for newer books made
after industrialization led to more
fragile and acidic paper. First editions
of Shakespeare are pretty easy to
handle; first editions of Dickens are
more fragile.
At the library I pursued two main
projects I originally proposed to their
7
fellowship committee and, pleas-
antly enough, a loose-end project I
didn’t even see coming. The loose
end involved stumbling across an
obscure play from the 1640’s which
I will argue is a previously un-noted
source for a major Dryden play. The
larger pieces of writing that emerged
(and which are on my computer’s
desktop begging me to revise them)
are two chapters of a would-be book
manuscript. One chapter attempts to
historicize our understanding of John
Fletcher and Francis Beaumont’s
King and No King (1611, but con-
stantly revived throughout the cen-
tury) by situating it in the context of
the Restoration paranoia surrounding
Charles II’s sexual proclivities. The
other asks what Fletcher and Mass-
inger’s The Sea Voyage (1622) really
has to do with Shakespeare’s Tempest
and how the Fletcher play influenced
one of the most popular Restoration
adaptations of Shakespeare, Dryden
and Davenant’s The Tempest, or The
Enchanted Island (1667). As in other
portions of the book, my aim is
both to clarify the political functions
of tragicomedy and to contribute
to scholarly understanding of the
seventeenth-century vitality of the
Fletcher plays, which were performed
more than twice as often as Shake-
speare’s during the Restoration.

1600 Burrstone Road
Utica, NY 13502-4892
Tradition. Opportunity. Transformation.®
Keats House continued from page 6
that day, Severn was, he wrote, “struck with the first real symp-
toms of sadness in Keats.” That particular poem was written in
1819, but it may be less sadness than illness that dogged Keats
for the short remainder of his life.
I thought as much as, in the pale pink bedroom Keats once
occupied, I recalled the famous story of Keats in that room
in 1820, coughing up blood, and telling his friend and the
owner of the house, Charles Brown, “I know the colour of
that blood;—it is arterial blood;—I cannot be deceived in that
colour;—that drop of blood is my death warrant.” Keats, who
had studied medicine before choosing poetry, knew well that
he had contracted tuberculosis. Having nursed his brother Tom
through the same illness, Keats knew what awaited him.
Though the poet’s mortality, his death at a young age before
achieving fame or before his engagement to Fanny Brawne led
to marriage, occupies a central theme in any Keats biography (I,
by the way, recommend both Stanley Plumly’s and Andrew Mo-
tion’s; no other matches these poets writing about Keats), some-
thing about the house’s interior made me conscious of Keats’s
immortality, his poems living on and, through them, his short
life is made eternal. Literary artifacts on display suggest as much
(the facsimile of the manuscript of Keats’s sonnet to Brawne,
“Dark Star,” for example). So, too, do the personal effects (the
almandine ring he gave Fanny on their engagement). Few of
Keats’s personal effects survive, though; upon his death in Rome
his possessions were burned as a precaution (unnecessary, medi-
cally, it turns out) against the spread of tubercular germs.
Throughout the house reminders of the poet’s death abound,
such as the death mask, a final image of the poet’s corporality.
I was surprised and particularly moved to see a copy of Fanny
Brawne’s collection of fashion plates. From a young age, she
saved the images of clothing—theatrical and historical—from
Non-Profit
Organization
U.S. Postage
PAID
Utica College
European fashion magazines in a scrapbook. Interestingly, there
are few plates from the years following Keats’s death, suggesting
her interest in this hobby waned (the collection picks up again
following her 1833 marriage to Louis Lindon).
Leaving the house, I kept thinking about Keats’s life go-
ing on through his poems, through this museum—as W.H.
Auden wrote about W.B. Yeats, “The words of a dead man / Are
modified in the guts of the living.” Two pieces of writing from
Keats echoed in my head as I descended the stairs to leave Keats
House. First, the last line of the last letter he wrote—the last
words this poet wrote, period: conscious of his inability to say
farewell to Charles Brown, he wrote, “I always made an awk-
ward bow,” a brief, understated end to a writer’s career, yet in
the beauty of iambic tetrameter. Second, his brief poem, “This
Living Hand.” “This living hand, now warm and capable / Of
earnest grasping,” it begins, “would, if it were cold / And in
the icy silence of the tomb, / So haunt the days….” The poem’s
ending reminds me (oddly, perhaps, and, certainly, anachronis-
tically) of the ending of Whitman’s “Song of Myself,” “see here
it is,” he writes of his hand (a metonymy for the poetry?) “I
hold it towards you.”
The summer arrived early in London this year—the tempera-
ture was high and the skies clear blue. St. James Park—where
I would have a Borough Market-bought dinner of cured meat,
Stilton, crusty bread, and a half-bottle of wine that evening—
would be overfilled with Londoners enjoying the outdoors, the
weather, each other, life. But when I left the house, stepping
through the back door, I could only think of the dull fact of
mortality. I could only think that, like Keats, I, too, will die.
Nota bene: Gary’s poetry chapbook, Fastened to a Dying
Animal, has just come out and is available from Pudding House
Publications (www.puddinghouse.com).