Paul Mariani (born 1940 in New York City) is an American poet and is University Professor Emeritus at Boston College.[1] (wikipedia)
He's a man of immense artistic talents masquerading as a down-home boy,
A young man opened the door and announced that Kennedy had been shot. At first I thought, what kind of a stupid pre-Thanksgiving joke was that to pull. But he said it was no joke, that he'd heard it on the radio,
I think Barry is a good foil for my poems. He's dark, gritty, unrelenting, but a real searcher too. A veritable Kierkegaardian figure, one of the most devout agnostics (his word) I know,
Lyric poetry is by its very nature elegiac - we write about what in fact is already slipping away from us,
And what was there over against that? The marriages of two of my sons, and Paul's new life as a young priest. Then the arrival of grandchildren, ... serving me imaginary tea.
I walked home to my apartment to find my wife sitting before our small black and white TV, in tears. Confused images on the screen - a caravan, a sniper or snipers...Then Walter Cronkite removing his glasses to announce that the President was dead.
