THE PASSING OF A POET, NOT JUST ANY POET, A DAMN GOOD ONE
For Steve Kowit, 1938-4/1/2015

I know all the drawbacks to Facebook
but yesterday I began to see photos of
my first, and best, poetry teacher Steve Kowit, 
with smiling friends, at readings, maybe having
a beer. Then today, even more photos, so I
shared one on my timeline. Later today

I saw a post with one of his pictures,
about his death.  And I read all the tributes
and a poem for him by Tom Marshall called
Still Developing (in three parts, for Steve)
which drove the news home, Steve had died.

At first I just said, well I don't believe it,
and then I moved into the next stage of grief,
wrestling with a spear of ice stuck in my heart.
I am sad, that's all there is to it. 

I wonder what it's like in Poet Heaven.

fine linen paper and high-end pens, maybe
a Mont Blanc, or a short sub of yellow pencil,
or a hundred computers just for you,
if you wrote that way.  I don't even remember
if you wrote with a pen, or pencil, on a yellow
legal pad, or the computer. But I want to know.

I have a lot of his books which this afternoon I
will find while the sun slants through the winter-dirty
french doors by the bookcases.  I remember a lot
of poetry readings in San Diego, and one time we
drove to maybe Mexicali for a Border reading. And
I was in his classes in old school buildings a really
long long time ago.


Poetry is a different way to see the world with poet eyes,
or hear words with poet ears, to taste water like communion,
he gave that to me.  Wish I was there
to say good-bye. Adios. La Chaim, although one
probably doesn't say that at the memorial service.

Carolyn Hull
4/3/2015