I took part in a reading last night at Poets House in Manhattan, a tribute to the late poet and friend Harvey Shapiro. Twenty-five people read poems they had selected from Harvey's books (some even reading from a posthumous book that'll come out next year). I can't think of a better way to remember and pay tribute to a poet.
Unless you've had a documentary made on you, and even then, depending on the filmmaker's biases or perspective, there's nothing like someone's poems to create the sensation that they are there, in the poems, speaking directly to you. That's how it felt last night.
Lots of Harvey's friends and family, lots of old friends of mine I hadn't seen in a while, some for decades, many decades. It was good. It was moving. It was inspiring. It was a tribute to a fine poet (I recommend you get hold of his new and collected poems: THE SIGHTS ALONG THE HARBOR, a wonderful collection that deserves to be on any poetry lover's bookshelf) and a good man.