. . .Of course since early 1974 I went through with Cid his dismissal by Bronk. I can well understand why both men did what they did since they essentially acted on their own personalities, and these were largely different, but complimentary with intent. It's curious what we become. Bronk was a Dartmouth man (we took you to the town, remember the rocking chairs on the porch?) and Cid was anything but. Bronk was small town a wee bit west of New England but still very much of old New England stock. Once upon a time Susan and I went to Bronk's town, he was still alive, and walked down his street, found his large Victorian home, attractive front yard, wide berth porch, winding to disappear behind the house driveway, and looked around at the surroundings. In these letters when he gets up off the porch to take a walk, I know, somewhat, where he was walking. There was one used bookstore in town, a pretty good one, Bronk sold books from his personal library to the store and I found some of these and bought what I could find, they also interested me. In the back of the store was tucked away a magic shop. It was ideal for our purposes because it kept Carson enthralled for hours. Like my father, Bronk was involved in lumber and coal, which he mentions very little in his letters or writing. Cid was the champion of inclusion and thinking he knew best about people and for people (and he was often right), but when he was wrong (as he mishandled some of Bronk, certainly not all) he hit his thumb with his own hammer. Bronk admits that without Cid his poetry may never have been seen. Cid brought it by his persistence and desire to the eyes of Jim Weil and James Laughlin and other publishers watching the pulse of Origin.
Cid Corman passed away ten years ago, yesterday, March 12.
Instead of recognizing the day, I thought to pay attention to the next day, and the next.
long day's work
into snow —
and all so
and crisp —
as if we're
on the cake.