Is it fair to call Philip Schultz the king of the plainspoken poets? Say, since the death of Philip (Detroit-born, veteran of the car factories) Levine in 2015? Well, there it is.
And isn’t it appropriate that Grace Schulman will be talking to him about his new collection, “Enormous Morning,” at BookHampton in East Hampton on Saturday at 6 p.m.? From the geography of their residences here to a certain directness to what this correspondent (whose perspective you’re stuck with if you’re reading this, apologies) remembers most about interviewing her years ago, how she prefers standard, prose-like punctuation in her poems so it’s not a distraction from what she’s saying.
There are the accolades, too, a Pulitzer Prize for him, a Frost Medal for her. But enough of that. Better to hear for yourself at the bookstore. Below is the title poem from Schultz’s book.
It’s an early winter morning,
the morning of my 80th year,
and I’m walking my Great Pyrenees mix, Binx,
through the Cedar Lawn Cemetery,
visiting the Grimshaws, Talmages and Kings,
whose opinions are echoing off
their mildewed limestone and slate names:
Benny James in 1706 still wondering
if a second windmill on Old Hook Hill
will improve the value of his estate,
young William Lamb arguing with old Henry Hadel
about the odds for and against going to WWI
or debtors’ prison, Lucy Reutershan advising
Sally Ann Bennett against wearing a handsewn
wedding dress, it’s not fine or lacy enough,
and a Jeffrey Arnold Cobb IV, wondering where
on Shelter Island to properly bury slaves,
while yellow-breasted warblers caw at us
about graves we’ve left untended, blessings
squandered. And yes, here I am,
older than I ever imagined I’d be,
wedged between the living and dead,
singing spoiled prayers, wondering why
I still want to reach across all the sorrow
and make my father understand that forgiveness
isn’t absolution or mercy, but the grace
that love makes, the only true wealth.
And here we all are, children hurrying off to school,
holding Mother’s hand, heads held high,
shoulders straight, an enormous morning opening
wide its pearly jade wings over everything
beginning again from the beginning.