His Own and Others
- The Folklife Center at Crandall Public Library
- 2 days ago
- 2 min read
The following essay, “His Own And Others,” is from poet Sherry Kearns’ book,
Conversations About Poetry, a memoir of her friendship with poet William Bronk,
(1918-1999), formerly of Hudson Falls, and winner of the 1982 American Book Award
for Poetry. Published by Adirondack Community College in 2008, Kearns’ book was edited by W. Sheldon Hurst, former Professor of Art History and Visual Arts Director there. It is republished here to recognize, and honor, both poets during National Poetry Month.
-Richard A. Carella (Hudson Falls, N.Y.)
"His Own and Others"
by Sherry Kearns
At some point when I was an adult and Bill was becoming an old man, Robert Creeley published a book of poetry that was reviewed in one of the national papers. Bill remarked on it so I asked if he was going to get a copy and read it.
He said he wasn't, that other poets' work didn't interest him, only his own.
I said that couldn't be. I knew he read other poets' work all the time.
He told me he was interested in what he wrote himself—and he was interested in the work of people he knew, his friends, but that was as far as his interest went. It wasn't that he no longer had the strength or stamina to read, though he said he was glad he had read Shakespeare and Proust and all the other big works that he had when he was younger because he couldn't do it now.
That which he had read already was his, but he had begun to describe a lesser circumference around what was central to his life. Within that smaller circle, his interest was lively and deep, but entry there had to be self-powered. Bill didn't call to invite anyone over to share some poetry. Whoever arrived at the back door, work in hand, was welcomed. There was coffee, food, poetry on the sunporch - but no outreach for those occasions. Letters came with poems in them, and letters were answered. But all the reach was within, to the source of the poetry. Bill didn't go around attempting daily to write, but he was always open to a poem should one come to him. More than friends, the poems were welcome. It was for them Bill lived alone, that he should be available to them, which arrived when they should.
Sometime in the last years, Bill told me that although life became ever more of an effort—I saw the oxygen line and insulin shots and heard the increasingly labored breathing—he still anticipated getting up and getting on with the day because he looked forward to what the poems might yet say to him. There was really nothing to go on for except that.