This morning, a BBC Radio 4 post acknowledging the passing of William Butler Yeats 78 years ago today, came across my twitter feed.
It reminded me of my reaction to his death. No. I do not actually remember it, but back in the early oughts, I read W.B.Yeats: A Life by biographer, Stephen Coote. Upon closing, after the final pages, I sat in my chilly Duck Mountain cabin, crying liberally. tears and sobs alike. Of course, I knew this story would have death the end, but The Life absolutely grabbed me with its imperfection.As a poet, Yeats' life made sense to me, and Coote's biography, which minimized the literary and emphasized day-to-day activity, grounded me as a poet. His life, somehow, put mine into context.
So here is my poem to Yeats. I wondered, as I glanced back the sixteen years, if maybe it had been a poem to Coote, but no, it was indeed for William's life. (Click on the poem to get full size.)
As an aside, Stephen Coote, though a prolific biographer is an enigma. He has no wiki profile. There are no photos of him, through any newspapers in the ethernet. This small search elevated my respect for him. I would love to hear him speak. I will chose another of his biographies.