They're There

  In memory of Frank Kermode (1919–2010)

At least the dead don’t have to die.
Everyone you see is dead, but it’s the Hamptons, so get over it.
Edward, and next Dick—and now Frank—all dead. Boys, goodbye.
Frank, at ninety, said on the phone he didn’t particularly want to die.
Don’t try to tell Frank that his charming work won’t die.
The dead don’t give a shit
About their work once they die. Frank is the newcomer:
I look around the lawn and there is everyone.
Poirier and Said and Kermode are sipping white wine and it is summer.
The fancy world of dead is having fun.
Everyone is wearing summer light.
They can’t tell wrong from right.

A poem by Frederick Seidel (Boston Review, September/October 2012)

Seidel scared himself with poetry, and us too. How had he done it?” John Jeremiah Sullivan presented the Hadada Award to Frederick Seidel at The Paris Review’s Spring Revel last monthYou can read the full text of his speech and three of Seidel’s poems. This seems to be a much better week for Sullivan because he also just won the James Beard Foundation’s MFK Fisher Distinguished Writing Award for his essay “I Placed a Jar in Tennessee.”