Loaf at your ease, luxuriating in the poet’s unhurried, insinuated cadences. This year we celebrate the two-hundredth birthday of Walt Whitman; and by “we” I mean all of us who take conscious pleasure
I’m getting a vibe from La La Land, low but detectable: Could it be … hope? After decades of working mostly for men, talking mostly to men, in dialogue mostly written by men, women on screens large and
Think “19th-century woman poet” and the image conjured up is other-worldly: Emily Dickinson (1830-1886), all in white, slipping away at the sight of strangers, or the equally reclusive Emily Brontë (1818-1848).