I have a hard time keeping the Cranes separate in my head. Both were poets, both died young. But one was gay and wrote long poems designed to put T.S. Eliot in his place and the other was the son of a Methodist minister and who married a brothel keeper and who wrote short, easy to read poems. Still, I get them mixed up.
It turns out that Hart Crane is the one who wrote the poems I don’t like, but, courtesy of Jilly Dybka over at the Poetry Hut Blog, I bring you a beautiful, passionate essay about one of this Crane’s poems.
The essayist is a great writer as well and it shows. If a sentence like this walked by me on the street, I would spend the rest of the day imagining running my fingers across it.
Lovers, he shows us, are all prodigals insofar as they are extravagant, errant wasters of language.