Mover Mike

One of my favorite poets, Stanley Kunitz, turned 100 today the 29th of July. Never will I forget the sting of that slap or the pain he still feels years after the event:

The Portrait

My mother never forgave my father
for killing himself,
especially at such an awkward time
and in a public park,
that spring
when I was waiting to be born.
She locked his name
in her deepest cabinet
and would not let him out,
though I could hear him thumping.
When I came down from the attic
with the pastel portrait in my hand
of a long-lipped stranger
with a brave moustache
and deep brown level eyes,
she ripped it into shreds
without a single word
and slapped me hard.
In my sixty-fourth year
I can feel my cheek
still burning.

Stanley Kunitz

Happy 100th birthday, Mr. Kunitz. You prove that poetry doesn’t have to be obscure to be good. And just because the ordinary guy or girl can understand it, doesn’t make it bad.

Tags: Poetry //
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