Death comes. Always. Everyone knows this. Poets tend to dwell on it.
For Diane di Prima, it came, one might say, naturally, in the eighty-eighth year of a daring, dynamic, and celebrated life. For Vittoria Repetto, it came in obscurity, in the form of a virus that found humanity through a Chinese market not so different from the ones where she bought supplies to practice herbal healing. For Bob Viscusi, it came in waves of disease, which struck him near the end of an epic voyage to comprehend the oceans that have borne us here. As I sit thinking about them, I am weeks away from heart surgery, feeling close to my own death, and feeling also that at least I understand the parameters of life, especially the writer's life, better for having known and read the work of these three extraordinary poets.
I didn't know Diane well. I met...
