Michael Donaghy, one of the finest poets of my generation, a year younger than I, died yesterday of a stroke. I played music with him for about an hour at West Chester four years ago, where later that evening he gave an absolutely magical reading. One from his Dances Learned Last Night:
The Classics
I remember it like it was last night,
Chicago, the back room of Flanagan's
malignant with accordions and cigarettes,
Joe Cooley bent above his Paolo Soprani,
its asthmatic bellows pumping as if to revive
the half-corpse strapped about it.
It's five a.m. Everyone's packed up.
His brother Seamus grabs Joe's elbow mid-arpeggio.
'Wake up man. We have to catch a train.'
His eyelids fluttering, opening. The astonishment …
I saw this happen. Or heard it told so well
I've staged the whole drunk memory:
What does it matter now? It's ancient history.
Who can name them? Where lie their bones and armour?
9:04:21 PM
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