I was away for a few days in Somerset for a friend's wedding. While there, human life, in all its horror, broke out across the world, oddly clashing with the sunlight and champagne of a rural English marriage. Norway's madness, Chinas' train collision, Amy Winehouse's senseless death, and a serial killer ex-Marine in the US, as well as several other tragedies, alongside the famine in Africa, seemed to render an already-fragile sense of optimism shattered. Yet, here I am, it is Sunday, it is sunny, and I am writing this. The world wobbles on. I will post more on some of this later.
THAT HANDSOME MAN A PERSONAL BRIEF REVIEW BY TODD SWIFT I could lie and claim Larkin, Yeats , or Dylan Thomas most excited me as a young poet, or even Pound or FT Prince - but the truth be told, it was Thom Gunn I first and most loved when I was young. Precisely, I fell in love with his first two collections, written under a formalist, Elizabethan ( Fulke Greville mainly), Yvor Winters triad of influences - uniquely fused with an interest in homerotica, pop culture ( Brando, Elvis , motorcycles). His best poem 'On The Move' is oddly presented here without the quote that began it usually - Man, you gotta go - which I loved. Gunn was - and remains - so thrilling, to me at least, because so odd. His elegance, poise, and intelligence is all about display, about surface - but the surface of a panther, who ripples with strength beneath the skin. With Gunn, you dressed to have sex. Or so I thought. Because I was queer (I maintain the right to lay claim to that
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I was wondering where you were. I hope that you had a pleasant time in Somerset - one of England's prettiest counties. It is true that the excrement has really collided with the turbine during your absence!
Best wishes from Simon