A first-time reader of James Schuyler’s poetry could have written my notes for this essay:
Clarity
Loves a list
Letter / diary
Right now, right here
Weather and Light
Addresses, exact addresses
Names of friends
Yet I spent thirteen years editing Schuyler’s letters, years during which I thought of him at least once a day, and at every reading I have given in the past decade or more I read at least one of his poems. Really, I ought to be able to come up with a few new observations about his exceptional poetry.