Terence Winch: Craic-Head Poetry

It was something of a surprise to the literary world when William McPherson published his first novel, Testing the Current , in 1984. Not that Bill was exactly an unknown—a former book editor at Morrow in NYC, founding editor of The Washington Post ’s Book World section (and later a Post columnist), and winner of the Pulitzer Prize for distinguished criticism in 1977, Bill seemed to know everyone on the East Coast who had ever written a noteworthy paragraph. At Book World, he opened the doors to coverage of contemporary poetry and even recruited people like me, Michael Lally , and Doug Lang as frequent reviewers. His creative and generous spirit really set him apart from other members of the literary establishment. Though he’d published some poems in The New Yorker and elsewhere, Testing the Current was to be a turning point in his life. He would, eventually, permanently leave the reviewing stand for the stage itself. Maybe if the book had bombed, Bill would have remained prima...

                                  photo by Terence Winch    An Féar Gorta If I ever go back home again, we will drive through the countryside just as it is getting dark. We will gather together in the town’s only hotel, eating, and telling jokes at each other’s expense. My heart beats steady there, my spirit alive to every gesture, every glance, the fire and spark we find in those we love. Those to whom we tell our dark secrets along with our idiotic nonsense. Whatever route I take, I always seem to get lost. I have a tendency to choose the wrong road to the wrong place. I wind up confused and stranded wondering if I’ll ever make it home. But I want that ticket back, no matter what the cost. At An Féar Gorta I want that rhubarb tart a la mode. I am even willing to stand in the rain, and be reprimanded for the sorry, soggy state in which I’ve left this poem. —from That Ship Has Sailed (Pitt Poe...

When I was five I was involved in an accident that has affected me deeply for the last 7 5 years. My best friend was a boy named Dennis O'Toole, who lived in the building next to mine on Daly Avenue in the Bronx. One summer day in 1951 the two of us filled up our water guns in my family's apartment & headed out to play. I remember that my mother was ironing & cautioned us to be careful as we ran out of the house. But we weren't careful. I was about a foot in front of Dennis as we tore across the street, shooting our guns in the air & laughing. Then, suddenly, I sensed something had changed.  When I turned around, I saw that Dennis had been knocked back to the other side of the street, where he was propped up against the tire of a parked car. It was a ghastly scene, imprinted in horrifying detail in my mind ever since. To my left was the black truck that killed him. Clearly, I had very narrowly escaped my friend's fate.  My memory of all this has always play...

Ted Greenwald and I were friends for more than 40 years. Around 1973, I saw a poem of his in a poetry journal & loved it. I don’t remember the poem or the journal. I also don't remember how I tracked him down, but somehow I did, and soon thereafter we became connected for life. Ted would come to DC to do readings and hang out. And I would see him in New York on my visits back to my native city. He died in 2016 and I still miss him greatly, as I know is true for so many who loved him and his work. Ted was indeed a steadfast comrade. He was also a brilliant and stunningly productive poet. He told me a year or two before he died that he had thousands of pages of unpublished work stored in the drawers of a dresser. I hope all that writing is in safe hands and will one day be published. I believe that recognition of the significance of his achievement as a writer will only increase with the passage of time. We talked—for the last time, as it turned out—in May of 2016, a month before...

                            Chris Mason at Normals Books & Records in Baltimore. Photo by T. Winch Baltimore is a wondrous place whose praises I have sung, literally ( "In Praise of the City of Baltimore" ). It is the home of the American Visionary Art Museum , my favorite place for outsider art. My old friend David Franks , who practically invented performance poetry, was active there as a poet and performer until his death in 2010 . The late Michael Ball r an the legendary i.e. reading series , bringing the work of a wide range of poets to intimate and homey space s . The indefatigable Stephen Reichert and Clare Banks edit the impressive literary journal Smartish Pace . Along with the Ivy Bookshop, Stephen and Clare also organize The Hot L Baltimore reading series. And my dear friends David Beaudouin and Don Berger add tremendous depth to Baltimore’s poetry community. Finally, I can’t leave out the em...