Andrew Sullivan reminds us that it is Robert Lowell’s birthday today. I have somewhat of a girlish crush on Lowell, so I feel like I should have known that. Nevertheless, Sully trots out the most popular of Lowell’s poems, “For The Union Dead,” as a little memorial. Indeed, “For The Union Dead” is a fine poem. But I think it was a weak choice. It was the easy choice. It was the Hillary Clinton choice, Andrew, and we all know Sully gets his rocks off by endorsing Barack Obama and taking a club to New York’s Junior. Weak Sauce!
I will be more bold.
For Months the heat of love has kept me marching,
now I am healthy, and I cannot stand;
women see through me like a head of cheese,
Boys on a gold enamelled Goiterband:
boys in ultra-violet tights and doublets,
from the costume shop of Botticelli,
albino Absaloms; they probe my thicket
with pies and wingnets, and I try to breathe,
I try to eep up breathing when I hide.
This is not Florence, or German mercenaries;
this is England, main artery of fighting- mercy was murder
at Towton when King Edward’s heralds counted
twenty thousand Lancastrian dead in the field,
doubling the number killed to make the count.
(“Dream” from The Dolphin)
