Word: melon
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Dates: during 1990-1999
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...rock stars, it has been an all too popular way. The music industry has been rocked, in the past few years, by the drug-related deaths of Nirvana's Cobain and Hole bassist Kristen Pfaff, and more recently Blind Melon's front man Shannon Hoon and Smashing Pumpkins keyboardist Jonathan Melvoin. As for Nowell, his bandmates say they tried to help him. Recalls Wilson: "If you tried to talk to him about it, he would get mad. He thought he was invincible. When someone would die, other artists, he'd just go, 'O.K., they're stupid, they shot too much...
Poetry is autobiography for some writers, transposed memories of voyages both interior and across time's span. Think of Wordsworth, seemingly cursed with total recall, or Whitman with his barbaric yawps about Brooklyn and the Union dead. Or consider Virginia Hamilton Adair, whose Ants on the Melon (Random House; 158 pages; $21) may prove to be the year's finest volume of verse...
Ants on the Melon is something of a miracle: the first book of poetry by an 83-year-old woman, sightless now from glaucoma, who resides at a retirement community in Claremont, California. But this slim volume distills a lifetime of writing. A graduate of Mount Holyoke and Radcliffe, Adair in her green years was considered a poet of promise. Thanks in part to the demands of marriage (in 1937 to the historian Douglass Adair Jr.), motherhood and teaching, she stopped publishing but kept on writing. Literary fame meant nothing; her delight was in the solitary pleasure of creation...
...judge by Ants on the Melon, Adair is a natural miniaturist. The longest verse in the collection is 52 lines, the shortest a mere seven. The poemlets are as richly terse as haiku, while themes in the longer ones reverberate like novels in cameo. Her images are tellingly precise, surprising. In "Mojave Evening," coyotes gather "And not far enough to mean fear/ only decorum/ the periscope ears of three/ no five rabbits. Waiting...
...BOOKS . . . ANTS ON THE MELON: 'Ants on the Melon' (Random House; 158 pages; $21) is something of a miracle: the first book of poetry by an 83-year-old woman, sightless now from glaucoma, who resides at a retirement community in Claremont, California. But this slim volume distills a lifetime of writing. A graduate of Mount Holyoke and Radcliffe, Virginia Adair in her green years was considered a poet of promise. Thanks in part to the demands of marriage (in 1937 to the historian Douglass Adair Jr.), motherhood and teaching, she stopped publishing but kept on writing. Literary fame meant...