I was gonna slack off tonight, Sunday night and all, with a big pot of Ragu Bolognese simmering away. Then the moon and the internet steered me back to the blog.
I was having a preprandial glass of wine and looked out the window at the full moon, disappearing and reappearing behind a slim bank of clouds. I thought: “The moon is a ghostly galleon tossed upon stormy seas” and then googled Noyses’s “The Highwayman,” one of the scant few poems I’d loved in my teens. I hang my head and admit that I was fifty before poetry was made plain and open to me.
Anyway, googling “The Highwayman” led to the ineveitable clicking on other poetry sites, and I discovered this amazing place:
It’s everything I love. I guess it’s meant to be downloaded into your device as you stroll the sights of Chicago, but for armchair travelers just go clickety. It’s history, geography, architecture and poetry. It’s about a tremendous city — and I lived in and still adore Montreal, have visited and nurse the usual passions for London, Paris, Rome and Lucca. But when you hear Sandburg read his “Windy City” you’ll hear about a Chicago vanished, but still here. And when you hear Vachel Lindsay read “Why I Voted the Socialist Ticket” you might squeeze out a tear, as I did,