Goodbye, Ai. We love you, love.
Monday, March 29, 2010
The poet Ai died last week. She was fierce in every sense and, I always thought, audacious to choose her name, as if she were saying, "I, poet." Of course, I was unaware that "ai" means love. And it was a strange love she wrote, too, for the violent, the destitute, and the debased. You could hear her scream or grit her teeth through a line. Electifying, intoxicating stuff. Why don't we read her more often? Is it because she makes us feel all raw and vulnerable, like our high school selves, roiling balls of hormones and anger? Tell you what, I'll read her if you will. It's a deal, then? Good.