Without Lifting A Finger

I was looking for info re his wife. Ann Swan and Kees were  married for 13 years and they eventually divorced because of her problem with alcohol. According to the article I found--see Lost Angeles, CA --she believed with others, e.g., Rexroth, that Kees killed himself. The author (Peter Hamill) of the article (long hairy title with "Kees" and "Long-missing Poet" in the title) posits the somewhat titillating possiblity of Kees dropping off the face of the earth, i.e., disappearing into Mexico (he had mentioned this as an alternative to suicide), and he would even like to think (and like us to think) that he traded words and Carta Blancas with him in a bar.

From the preface, written in 1960, by Donald Justice:   The poetry of Kees makes its deepest impression when read as a body of work rather than a collection of isolated moments of brilliance. This may account in part for the neglect from which it has suffered. Though a number of the poems are brilliant and many are moving, no single poem perhaps is flawless. IMHO, perhaps especially in the realm of poetry, flawless can only be a subjective term. That said, here comes a shorter one (these days my preferred length) that is nearly so: LAND'S END A day all blue and white, and we Came out of woods to sand And snow-capped waves. The sea Rose with us as we walked, the land Built dunes, a lighthouse, and a sky of gulls. Here where I built my life ten years ago, The day breaks gray and cold; And brown surf, muddying the shore, Deposits fish-heads, sewage, rusted tin. Children and men break bottles on the stones. Beyond the lighthouse, black against the sky, Two gulls are

In reading his The Last Man I couldn't help hearing (over and over again) T. S. Eliot. This debt--and much more--is discussed in Anthony Lane's New Yorker article, "The Disappearing Poet." Other interesting documents/criticism re Kees can be found here.

Didn't know his name at all a few years ago (still don't really know much about his work). Certainly didn't know--until fairly recently and after my book had been "tagged"--that his first published book was titled The Last Man . Will let you know more when I know more, but for now here's a pretty good one mentioned in the intro by David Wojahn: 1926 The porchlight coming on again, Early November, the dead leaves Raked in piles, the wicker swing Creaking. Across the lots A phonograph is playing Ja-Da . An orange moon. I see the lives Of neighbors, mapped and marred Like all the wars ahead, and R. Insane, B. with his throat cut, Fifteen years from now, in Omaha. I did not know them then. My airedale scratches at the door. And I am back from seeing Milton Sills And Doris Kenyon. Twelve years old. The porchlight coming on again.