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jazzfishI occasionally talk about Len Scigaj ("ski plus jive minus the V"), who taught me Modern Poetry, twice, and was one of my favourite university professors. Mostly I think of Scigaj in the context of The Waste Land, or of H.D. or William Carlos Williams. Rarely Yeats, who I'd devoured before ever taking the class; more rarely it's Auden, who I never did quite develop a taste for. Though I keep thinking I ought to revisit him, his "In Memory of W.B. Yeats" gets stuck in my head sometimes.
But Scigaj also taught me Wallace Stevens, whose poetry I rarely think about because it feels like something I've always known. Thirteen Ways Of Looking At A Blackbird and Anecdote Of The Jar and The Man With The Blue Guitar. And The Emperor of Ice Cream, "Let be be finale of seem" and all that.
I mention this because, as noted elseweb, whenever anyone asks you "what's the point of getting an english degree, hurr hurr" you can respond with "So that I can laugh my head off at things like this."
But Scigaj also taught me Wallace Stevens, whose poetry I rarely think about because it feels like something I've always known. Thirteen Ways Of Looking At A Blackbird and Anecdote Of The Jar and The Man With The Blue Guitar. And The Emperor of Ice Cream, "Let be be finale of seem" and all that.
I mention this because, as noted elseweb, whenever anyone asks you "what's the point of getting an english degree, hurr hurr" you can respond with "So that I can laugh my head off at things like this."