Best poet of all, back in the day? Prize goes to Edna St. Vincent Millay

Edna St. Vincent Millay among the blossoms

There it was on a book shelf, SAVAGE BEAUTY, The Life of Edna St. Vincent Millay, by Nancy Milford. So I bought it right away and took it home for a mid-winter reading project. I’ve had no reason since to regret it.

Milford makes a creditable investigative run at one of America’s premier poets. She fills her book with juicy Millay details gleaned from reading the poet’s personal letters,

Youthful Edna

plus interviewing a surviving sister. One awesome revelation:  Edna’s parents gave her that prestigious middle name because they admired Maine’s St. Vincent Hospital.

In this debased era – when poetry is relegated to the domain of rock musical lyrics and advertising blank verse – one is more likely to encounter an honest politician strolling the boulevards than a real poet.

But there was a time in this country, during a frenetic Jazz Age, when these charming versifiers proliferated. National poetry magazines printed their stanzas, while newspapers routinely reported the results of their contests and interviewed their traveling lecturers. Even some radio stations held weekly poetry readings which attracted wide audiences. And among the bards writing during the third decade of the 20^th century, one stood highest in public acclaim.

Confessions of an art guerrilla; critics, painters often scam unwary public

Listen, my children, and you shall hear – the confessions of an art guerrilla: I am the

Mona Lisa: a big bust

Ernesto “Che” Guevara of the art set, a nasty rebel amongst aesthetes of the wine and cheese brigade.  I’ve banished the drab opinions of ” experts” and now accept only art that I personally prefer.  And like my alter ego, Che,  I intend to make ceaseless war on the fat sacred cows of painting.

This urge to topple fat-headedness is so heretical that I don’t even like Leonardo da Vinci’s “Mona Lisa,” that hymn to Renaissance mediocrity which has been hyped for centuries as a world masterpiece beyond price. Oh, it is okay, a nice piece of drawing, but that’s all. I might hang it on the wall if someone gave me Leonardo’s artwork for free. But in no alternate universe fantasy would I waste millions of dollars buying it. A great place to display it would be the bathroom, where visitors are in a hurry and in no mood to linger over the painting’s deficiencies.

Don’t procrastinate. Emigrate! It is to laugh as feds continue their fumbles

The classic wetback maneuver: floating on inflated bags

Illegal immigration – there’s a thought-provoking subject. And the Gulf oil spill, even more so.

Both provoke me to think that the federal government – as it is haphazardly stitched together – would have trouble organizing and policing a two-car funeral.

Concerning immigration, it has been apparent for decades (except perhaps for the most deeply brain-damaged among us) that the federal bureau of that name, and its policies, are one of history’s great disasters. Ten to 12 million illegal aliens among us stand as proof.  Despite this, the Obama administration still insists on command of the problem, threatening lawsuits to states like Arizona which organize minimal defenses against the horde of Mexicans flooding across its borders.

Where were you when? Historical events energize our flabby memories

President Kennedy and Jackie in Dallas

“Where were you when?…” It’s a fascinating memory game. Where were you when President John F. Kennedy was assassinated? When World War II began?  When those planes hit the Twin Towers on 9/11?

Adolf Hitler

It illustrates the fact that most of our days are not significant enough to recall. Memories have to be jogged by some event, a war, disaster, or a murder. But just recalling the event isn’t enough.  Our event has to be so stunning, horrifying, or thrilling that  you can remember where you were at the time and often what you said or thought.

I can’t answer for anyone else, but the moment President  Kennedy was shot I was in my basement, sitting on the floor.  I had stepped through the basement door into the dark interior, and my foot landed on the tines of a carelessly placed rake whose handle rose swiftly and smacked me smartly between the eyes. I collapsed and assumed the sitting lotus position for what seemed like ages, counting the comets and stars shooting before my eyes.

Media assures us Gulf oil leak is worst; Is it? Alaska was pretty tragic case

Lo, the media assures me: British Petroleum’s oil leak in the Gulf is our nation’s premier environmental disaster.

The Wall Street Journal and the Associated Press – the right and left of

Sarah Palin

American journalism – both agree: our BP leak transcends by far the fabled Exxon ship disaster of March 24, 1989 which knocked Alaska on its financial keister.

Well, it is, and it isn’t. On paper it should be the worst man-made damage to the ecology ever inflicted. The Exxon Valdez was only one ship with a paltry 53 million gallons of petroleum, only 11 million of which leaked onto Alaska’s shoreline, while the BP imbroglio features a hole in the ocean bottom spewing up unlimited quantities of oil.

But so far, thanks to preventative techniques such as blocking booms and dispersant chemicals, damage to the Louisiana shoreline can’t yet compare to the misery Alaska suffered.

Tomcats alleged to be kitten-killers? Herodotus nails an old canard for us

Bast cat goddess

My favorite historian has always been Herodotus, that 5^th century BC teller of old wives tales, collector of legends (urban and otherwise), belittler of the patently bogus, organizer of amazing twaddle, and story-relater beyond compare. This enterprising Greek traveled the known world of his time collecting stories and tales, sifting them and ruling on their veracity or lack thereof.

He solved a cat mystery for me just this past week – more like a cat slander, because it related to the alleged domestic deficiency of tomcats. I have countless times been told with great assurance that female cats will not let male cats near their litters because toms will kill their kittens. They do this, my informants say, to bring the female back into heat, so the males can commit more whoopee.

Those seeking God, gold and glory embellish America’s great story

"For God, Gold and Glory" depicts Columbus and crew

Strangest thing, America gets much better press from its immigrants than from all its over-educated bookworms, its news and entertainment media, or its alleged academics. Often these tired-and-poor newcomers sing our praises louder than even our most privileged native fauna – the billionaires.

Just follow a crowd of Mexican illegals around any Wal-Mart super center. They radiate an aura of Sir Galahad finding the Holy Grail, Orphan Annie regaining Daddy Warbucks, or a thirsty camel falling into the Nile River.