Small wonder that the case remains unsolved,Or that the sleuth, Le Roux, is now incurably insane,
And sits alone in a white room in a white gown,
Screaming that all the world is mad, that clues
Lead nowhere, or to walls so high their tops cannot be seen;
Screaming all day of war, screaming that nothing can be solved.
--excerpted from "Crime Club" by Weldon Kees (from The Collected Poems of Weldon Kees, edited by Donald Justice, ©1975 University of Nebraska Press).
7 comments:
bro, we need to hang.
it's like laying neat, little rows of bullets with you....
k
http://www.newyorker.com/archive/2005/07/04/050704crat_atlarge
Hey, thanks for the article link. I knew a little about Kees' weird disappearance, but it was great to read more about it.
We'll hang out one of these days.
I'm hooked after reading that passage. The last book of poetry I bought was BIRTHDAY LETTERS by Ted Hughes but I'm intrigued by Weldon Kees now.
David, you should also take a look at the New Yorker to which Kieran linked above.
That should have read "New Yorker article"...
Maine! (I'm from Orono, but currently living in Brooklyn, NY.) Can't wait to make it back there soon.
Thanks for the poem - really excellent. I had never heard of this writer before.
-Cullen
www.pulpserenade.blogspot.com
Fantastic, that. A eye opener!
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