The arrival of an author’s Collected Poems sometimes amounts to little more than an academic curiosity. Scholars and critics sift through the treasure for hidden secrets or clues: here, an allusion to the messy divorce; there, corroborating evidence of depression; and over here, some juvenilia with homoerotic symbolism. Usually, only lifelong fans and librarians bother to purchase such books, which end up as collector’s items shelved alongside prize-winning gems. And maybe this is how it should be. With so much new poetry published each year, why should anyone bother with the tossed-off efforts of a long-dead poet?
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