There are many ways to feel humbled as a poet (as the author of a mere chapbook, I'm familiar with most of them). But it can be equally disturbing to see a poet you hold in esteem fading into obscurity. For whatever reason, I don't feel like naming names at the moment -- perhaps out of a sense of denial that such a wonderful writer could be someday forgotten.
Since I'm on something of a budget, it's not beneath me to order books online from sellers that specialize in used books. In fact, I've saved quite a few shillings by settling for used copies. And since I often forget what I've ordered, the arrival of a small package in the mail is often a pleasant surprise, akin to receiving a book in one of those chain mail games where you send one of your favorite books to a stranger. I open them eagerly, and am often delighted to find a volume by an other who just happened to cross my mind a week or so ago.
Not for the first time, the volume I ordered most recently was one that had been decommissioned by an academic institution (in this case, Harvard College). I find it sad to think that curious readers browsing the open stacks at Harvard's library may not have the good fortune to stumble upon one of the most esteemed poets of my generation. He happens to be a writer I met once or twice at an LGBTQ writing conference a few decades ago, and he was quite charming in person. He's also one of the many writers of his generation who died well before his time, so his poetic output -- though I would consider him prolific -- was limited to a few volumes.
I'm trying to be optimistic. Perhaps Harvard had redundant copies of his last collection. Perhaps students at one of the nation's most esteemed universities still have opportunities to stumble upon his work. But for the moment, Harvard's loss is my gain. I finally do have a copy of his last volume in my collection.
