Antic

Paul Muldoon is round of cheek and belly, bespectacled, with a Harpo-esque mop of graying hair over a pointy emoticon nose. He stands at the bottom of the amphitheater in black shirt and trousers, tan jacket, a tie the same orange as the cover of Moy Sand and Gravel. He speaks and reads softly, in spite of the lapel mic (that is sometimes irritated by the crossing and uncrossing of his arms), in staccato phrasings, a hint of Irish lilt. “My poems sometimes just end,” he says. “Had I finished that last poem? I think I had. Who’s to know?”

Frye on Absentmindedness
Here’s a May Day Poem
New poem posted
Zbigniew Herbert
Leatha Kendrick

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