Stanley, I love your work…


It’s the birthday of poet Stanley Kunitz , born in Worcester, Massachusetts (1905). His parents were Jewish immigrants from Eastern Europe. His father committed suicide in a public park before Kunitz was born and his mother, Yetta, erased all traces of Stanley’s father from the house and refused to speak about him. She opened up a dry-goods store and sewed clothes in the back room, working overtime to pay off the debts that her husband had left behind, even though legally she was not obligated to pay them.
One thing his mother did not destroy were the books his father had left behind, books by Tolstoy and Dickens. One of Kunitz’s favorite books was the dictionary. He said:
“I used to sit in that green Morris chair and open the heavy dictionary on my lap, and find a new word every day. It was a big word, a word like eleemosynary or phantasmagoria — some word that, on the tongue, sounded great to me, and I would go out into the fields and I would shout those words, because it was so important that they sounded so great to me. And then eventually I began incorporating them into verses, into poems. But certainly my thought in the beginning was that there was so much joy playing with language that I couldn’t consider living without it.”
His first job as a boy was riding his horse down the streets of Worcester and lighting the gas lamps at night. He became a reporter for the Worcester Telegram, went to Harvard, and stayed for his master’s degree. He wanted to pursue his Ph.D., but the head of the English department at Harvard told him that Anglo-Saxon students would resent being taught by a Jew.
So he moved to a big farm in Connecticut, and worked as a reporter and farmer. He sold fresh herbs to markets in Hartford. Kunitz was drafted into World War II, and when he came back he was offered a teaching position at Bennington College. In 1949 the college tried to expel one of his students — Groucho Marx’s daughter Miriam — right before her graduation because she had violated a curfew. Kunitz helped organize a protest of the decision and the president of Bennington showed up at his house and told him to stop immediately. Kunitz took the plant that he was potting and threw it in the president’s face, then quit.
He published two books, but both were barely noticed. He was so unknown that his third book, Selected Poems (1958), was rejected by eight publishers — three of them refused to even read it. When it was finally published it won the Pulitzer Prize. When someone asked W.H. Auden why nobody knew about Stanley Kunitz, Auden said: “It’s strange, but give him time. A hundred years or so. He’s a patient man.”
It was more than 10 years before he published his next book, The Testing Tree (1971), and slowly but surely, people began to take notice. He was appointed the poet laureate when he was 95 years old. He died at the age of 100.
He said, “It is out of the dailiness of life that one is driven into the deepest recesses of the self.”

Definition #195 Simplicity

From my face to Annika's 2015

From my face to Annika’s


Make the complex simple

awesomely simple;

that’s creativity!

translucent diadems.

Charles Mingus

Thoughts too weak:

make the complex simple;

empty them, start again:

they’re beyond cognition.

Luc de Claplers

Try for plainness


make the complex simple

polished core revealed.


Birdsong, sky and weather:

luminous and spare;

look through them to see the world;

make the complex simple!

Stanley Kunitz



It is out of the dailiness of life that one is driven into the deepest recesses of the self.
Stanley Kunitz

Haiku for Dailiness

sticky toes point tight
scamper swiftly o’er the green:
mean to hang wide web


My struggle is to use the life in order to transcend it, to convert it into legend. Stanley Kunitz

Lady Marion courtesies
Her hand-me-downs
This fine day arrived.

Apparel takes a bow
For camera
And Grandma:

Author of colors
Fabrics, patterns
Costumes of the world.


The pages open
The glance
Submits to legend.

%d bloggers like this: