. . . There were actually two good poems in this week’s New Yorker. I know, April Fool’s, right? The one about Emmett Till’s casket by Cornelius Eady was lovely and sad and real and honest: one line was devastating, possibly the best I have read in months.
I’ve devoured the poem four times already and have ready torn it out to put in my sketchbook. Read it out loud, it’s juicy and bubbly and just good.
A nice beginning to National Poetry Month.
Not sure if you meant to link to it or post a scan, but here’s a URL: http://www.newyorker.com/fiction/poetry/2010/04/05/100405po_poem_eady