On the Death of Poetry and Derek Walcott

By: Taylor Caron

Screen Shot 2017-04-24 at 2.46.03 PM.png

I can’t locate exactly when I became aware of Derek Walcott’s poetry. I don’t have a touching anecdote about the first poem I read in a used bookstore responsible for catapulting my deep interest in both the man and his work. That was a slow, inevitable process. Initially, I was intrigued by his seemingly unique position in English poetry. English was violently forced upon Walcott in the colonial schools of Saint Lucia, as it had been for so many. And yet, up until the time of his death only a few weeks ago, he was a candidate for one of the finest users of the English language in the world.

I used to be a news junkie. Lately, I’ve been restraining myself. Every news update further compounds the terrifying nature of our current political leadership and I only have so much energy for rage. So, I was surprised, when idly scrolling through The New Yorker a few days ago, to see a plethora of pieces dedicated to the life of Walcott. I clicked on one piece by Rachel DeWoskin, a poet and student of Walcott, titled “The Problem with Poetry Students, and Other Lessons from Derek Walcott.” I was surprised by the death of this man, the writing that had been produced in the wake of his departure, but I don’t know why. I knew he was elderly, but I still assumed I’d be able to attend a reading of his someday. I thought that I would have my collected poems signed by a hand that had earned a Nobel Laureate.

DeWoskin’s piece is an interesting snapshot into the personality of the poet, depicting him as brilliantly eloquent, charming, and a bit harsh. She recalls an anecdote in which Walcott had confidently stated that poetry, as an art form, had reached its end. He made this statement with certainty, relates DeWoskin, when a student approached him to say that John Ashberry’s zany, experimental verse was easier to read than Dante’s highly formal, rhythmic writing. You can sense Walcott’s shock and disgust creeping off the page. Truthfully, I can see where the kid was coming from.

Is poetry, a form of speech which some linguistic anthropologists hypothesize might predate the conversational, in its twilight years? Or was Walcott correct and the art form has reached its end? I don’t think I’m capable of answering that question. Surely, much of the poetry that I and many of my peers enjoy would be considered trash by a classically educated, highly formalistic and stylized writer like Walcott. I can’t imagine him snapping his fingers at a slam event, and though he was capable of writing beautiful and heartbreaking pieces about the wounds of colonialism and post-colonialism, his verse was rarely, if ever, overtly polemical.  His newest collection was released in 2010. The collection, White Egrets, is about Homer and the love of poetry. The New York Times labeled the book an “old man’s book” upon its release. I think I was 18 when it became one of my favorites, which is either a comment on myself or the reviewer.

I don’t know if, according to Walcott, poetry had already died when he wrote those poems. Speaking to a graveyard seems useless, but maybe it’s also a bit liberating too. In DeWoskin’s piece, she relays another funny but grave anecdote in which a student criticized Thomas Hardy’s word choice in a particular poem. Walcott, who deeply admired Hardy, expatiated for 45 minutes on the necessity of that particular word choice and the arrogance of the student. That’s a show of true passion. He was obsessed with his favorite poets, their work, and maybe even their personages. It can be difficult to separate the poet from their art, and no matter how persuasively academics and friends tell me they’re able to, I never fully believe them. I love Walcott’s poetry, but I don’t know if I love the man. DeWoskin’s piece, filled with goodwill, did not mention some of the more disturbing episodes of Walcott’s life. Two students from two separate universities accused him of sexual harassment, claims which he did not feel he had to refute or apologize.  This kind of information, though difficult to swallow for the kind of naïve reader of poetry who admires rather than studies, is important to recall when trying to remember the totality of someone’s life and their effect on others.

And yet, I was still moved by DeWoskin’s piece when she relayed a later conversation with Walcott. He said his primary goal or lesson he wanted to impart to his students was love. DeWoskin questioned “In life, you mean?” and he answered “in poetry.” I apologize for being unable to provide an answer as to whether or not poetry is dying or has died, but I think I will challenge or differentiate myself from Walcott in this sense: I’m not sure the love of poetry and love in life or mutually exclusive emotions. In fact, I’d like to think they are the same, or that they have the same origin. I probably will never learn Greek in order to read Homer, or Italian for Dante, and I regularly mispronounce Shakespeare when trying to read it aloud. But I will continue to read Walcott. His love of language inspires me to love something with that kind of intensity and generosity even after I’ve close the book. That may have never been his intention, but it’s my own small way, more than writing poems myself, that keeps the flame alive.

Slam at the Benton: “Food Stamps”

by Jacob Lowell

Food Stamps
by Jacob Lowell

When I was 5 years old
I would sit with my mother and cut out
the coupons in the newspaper,
all spread out on the dining room table.
They tell me I couldn’t remember being on food stamps;
I was only a kid.
But I remember shopping trips and
shaking white knuckles on the steering wheel.
cutting milk with water,
cutting juice with water,
eating only mac and cheese and
picking the marshmallows out of the off brand lucky charms.
It would always go bad in a few days.
We’d still eat it anyway
We would have breakfast for dinner because it was
cheap and
My mother hated cooking.
my mother still hates cooking.
So I learned how to make grilled cheese
and french toast.
I learned how to steal food
from the cafeteria.
It wasn’t hard because
my friends always had leftovers,
which is to say I begged them for it
I knew we had enough at home but
we didn’t have pudding cups
and we didn’t have pretzels and
granola bars and
we never ever had fruit snacks.
I was caught in fifth grade with
someone else’s lunch box.
I had already eaten half of it so
they called my mother,
who had to call the other kids mother
and I got in trouble for lying
but not for stealing.
I had to learn to wear humiliation better after that
learn to say I didn’t need it.
I called myself guilty.
The last time I stole something
I was in sophomore year and trying to starve
It was an apple off my art teacher’s desk
I wouldn’t let her offer it to me
So I took it after hours
These days
I hide my food in the back of the pantry
so I won’t eat it all
or won’t eat at all
I haven’t yet learned the difference
These days
I scavenge for half eaten lunches
with a beast’s eyes I haven’t unlearned
Hunger is a strange beast.
Makes strange beasts of us.
Teaches us how to howl and
hide and bury
how to crack open bone and
make nothing left
feel like a feast you should be lucky to attend
Hunger follows you even when full belly.
even quenched mouth.
Hunger will always be there
behind you
if you are given a reason to fear it.


Jacob Lowell reading his poem, “Food Stamps” for the Long River Review’s 2017 Reading Series: Slam at the Benton.

Ben Schultz – Videography (Filming and Editing)
Nicholas DiBenedetto – Interviews
Brandon Marquis – Interviews
Mairead Loschi – Podcast Audio


Meet the Poet: Jacob Lowell

Prior to the reading, Poetry Editor Nicholas DiBenedetto and Creative Nonfiction Panelist Brandon Marquis sat down with Jacob to talk about his work with Poetic Release and the story behind his piece.

Brandon Marquis: So just starting with your name, introduce yourself.

Jacob Lowell: My name is Jacob Lowell. I guess I’m a poet, an artist—I do a lot of everything… I try to do a lot of everything. I’m involved with Poetic Release; I guess that’s a talking point.

Benjamin Schultz: Poetic Release? Like a student organization here?

JL: Yeah, it was started by Devin Samuels in 2013, or 2011, or something like that. Devin actually coached the youth team—Connecticut has a state-based youth team that they send to Brave New Voices—that I’ve been involved with for the past two years, possibly three, but in an administrative stance this summer instead of competing. He was my coach my first year, and he was like, ‘oh man, when you go to college you should totally join Poetic Release because I absolutely—you’re always loved by the things you create.’ He absolutely adores art, and I really—I love poetry, intensely, and it kind of freaks people out sometimes because they’re like ‘oh man, have you seen this video on Button?’ And I’m like ‘actually, I’ve seen every video on Button, ever.’ And they’re like ‘what!? Dude there’s like a thousand poems.’ And I’m like ‘yeah I just don’t sleep anymore.’

So I’ve been working with (Poetic Release’s) admin board, I’m doing their social stuff so follow their Twitter @UCPoeticRelease, and, you know, it’s a great time. It’s a really good space for kids on campus, because art’s really important.

ND: You said you really like poetry in particular, what do you think draws you to that as opposed to other forms of writing?

JL: I actually started writing short stories, which then became fanfiction—I love fanfiction so much—but I think poetry is really interesting. I actually really liked classical poets when I was younger, so like Emily Dickinson and Robert Frost and all those dead white people they make you read in English, and I was like ‘oh my gosh,’ poetry is like really romantic, it’s also really historical, it’s really political, all the time.

Emily Dickinson has this poem that we talked about in like 6th grade, “I like to see it lap the Miles –” she was around for the industrial revolution and so she was like ‘yeah like, y’all invented the steam engine but it’s not a horse, so I don’t really care.’ We talked about that and a lot of people think that all Emily Dickinson wrote about was feeling lonely, and even that in itself is a movement, like is power, and is important. I think something that’s really cool about poetry is that it’s constantly challenging you; it’s not easy to write. It’s never easy to write poetry. It can be natural to some people, but it’s never like ‘oh man I’m gonna sit down and like write this poem in a day—bam, done.’ That used to be my writing style and then people were like ‘look Jake, you gotta edit,’ and I was like ‘what?’ So, you know, yikes.

BM: Could you talk more about that power in poetry you mentioned?

JL: Poetry is always giving power to the artist, I think. You always hear these like really sad, romantic stories about these writers who couldn’t find any purchase anywhere else. One of the books I was obsessed with when I was a kid was Little Women. There’s an artist, Jo; she used to write these really long stories, and she didn’t start getting published until she started writing poetry—publishing under a pseudonym—and then she got her plays published. That was her breaking into art; there’s Yeats, didn’t really get a lot of things published except his poetry. Shakespeare! Hated his sonnets. One of the things he’s remembered for the most. So it’s always the thing that’s going to outlive you I think.

There’s also more modern poets who’ve found power in poetry. Andrea Gibson didn’t know what to do with their burgeoning identity, their activism, their anger, their love and their joy, so then they just started putting it into poetry and someone was like ‘you’re actually like kinda good at this thing,’ and started paying them to do art, and travel, and tour nationally, and have like three chapbooks and like four albums, that’s amazing.

Rupi Kaur, and other Instagram poets like Warsan Shire, but definitely Rupi Kaur. They’re traumatized women of color, and they had nowhere to put their pain, and they were like ‘I guess the only thing I have left is my art.’ So they started putting it out. Art is valid without recognition, but the recognition they get is really important for them and for others. I recently just finished reading Milk and Honey, and everything about it really hurts, but it’s also really great. And… Man, I just really like art.

ND: Especially with the intersection of the illustrations with the poems, I love the hybrid work there. You mentioned earlier that Emily Dickinson’s ‘sad and lonely’ connotation she gets, that even that, in a way is a political statement, and from what I’ve read of your work, it has that personal element. What do you think about navigating the space between the personal and the political?

JL: I think personal experiences are almost always, and can almost always be a political statement. In my poem, I write about my weird relationship with food insecurity, and being on WIC for a while, and how that affected me more than people would think. “Food Stamps” kind of came as a surprise, it was written by accident.

We were meant to do a community outreach thing for our creative writing class, and there was a nonprofit organization called Feed the Children—which is an entirely tacky name, but they’re a good organization—they were holding a silent auction for art and exposition for poetry. So, we signed up to do it, and then everyone completely forgot about it until like two days before the event. My friend was like ‘oh my god just like read what you have’ and I was like ‘no, if it’s about food insecurity then I’m going to write about food insecurity, it’s something that affects me.’

So I sat down and wrote this poem in like a day, which completely goes against what I said earlier (laughs). I read it, and people started crying, it was very strange for me. It was something I never really thought a lot about, but when I was a kind I used to straight up steal food from people, and was constantly worried about where my next meal was even years after we got off WIC and food stamps.

I think I got off topic, but when I sit down to write from personal experience, I always am forced to think—especially as a performance poet—who is going to read this and what are they going to take away, what is the art there. There’s something they call the ‘So-What Factor’ in what makes your art important in performance poetry, and that ‘So-What Factor’ is what am I saying politically, and what am I putting out into the world. I can write “Food Stamps” and the ‘So-What Factor is that you think once a person is economically secure this ends, and it doesn’t. In the other poem I submitted, “The Year of Klekolos” you think that when you cut a toxic person out of your life they’re gone and they aren’t. Other stuff like that.


Jacob Lowell is a Human Rights and Political Science major, as well as a performance poet currently associated with UConn’s Poetic Release. He really likes coffee, sustainability, and other poets. He’s proudest of his bad taste in fanfiction, and great taste in music.

Scarecrow Pretends: Robert Okaji’s Metallurgy

By: Benjamin Schultz

Screen Shot 2017-04-16 at 5.04.43 PM.png

By the end of this article, I hope that you’ll decide to check out The Slag Review. Your incentives are as follows: The Slag Review’s staff of Slaggers consists primarily of a blacksmith and two UConn English alumni: Therese Masotta and Carleton Whaley. Both are connected to myself and this publication because they worked on the 2016 staff of the Long River Review. In addition, the title of their literary journal is a reference to the process of smelting ore, work so dangerous and medieval that this group is inherently cooler as a result.

It would have been fun to make this a “Where are they now?” expose. However, I’ve never met these great writers in person (and noticed one of them expressing a strong disinterest in people prying into his personal affairs in the LRR 2016 bios.) Therefore, I’ve decided to focus on one of The Slag Review’s published poets instead.

Robert Okaji, my poet of choice, wrote a piece in Slag titled “Scarecrow Pretends,” another example of a title that gets the cool ball rolling early on. First, let me explain a bit about Okaji through an example of his thinking about poetry. This is snipped from his personal blog:

“A poet considers the intersections of language and numbers, connections between disparate entities (…) all, of course, while contemplating good food and that most magnificent of elixirs, beer, which may have been the very foundation of civilization. Or not.”

In addition to his blog, Okaji has also authored the chapbook If Your Matter Could Reform and I have found his work in several other literary journals.

I think that I found Okaji’s poem so captivating because it is able to incorporate elements from the abstract to the concrete. As I am writing from the perspective of someone with a limited experience with poetry, I admired Okaji’s deft mixture of humor (such as his marveling at the absurdity of a scarecrow’s predicament as it is pecked and roosted by the very beast it is meant to deter) and serious thoughts about the personality of something that does not possess the ability to fulfill its purpose. What meaning does the simple scarecrow adopt if it is not scaring away crows?

(…) Does attracting more crows than I deter negate my existence?

And which am I? A river? A man? An effigy, one

perception, or another? I do not frighten, but welcome. Speak

louder, that we may ignore our insignificance, our true names.

The intersection that Okaji explores in this stanza between the name of an object and its intended purpose is poignant. Logic states that design and function are mutually exclusive. However, Okaji’s poem is a reminder that life is not always logical.

The reason this piece is an obvious choice for the “small, confused group of creators” at The Slag Review relates to their interest in metallurgy. Okaji’s magic elixir of words tells a story both within the self and outside of it, and it’s no surprise that the alchemists at Slag thought he was a good fit. Now that you’ve gotten a glimpse, go read the full poem – and journal – for yourself!

Slam at the Benton: “Hardwood Laxatives”

by Jacob Nelson

Hardwood Laxatives
by Jacob Nelson

I think HGTV is trying to redefine what a home is
After realizing that at 3000 Sq ft two bedrooms
And a home office
No one under 35 has a home

Open floorplans and hardwood are timeless
So they switched greatrooms to microhomes and studios.

We’re bringing yards indoors with growboxes
And terrariums and organic-stocked fridges

And I kinda like the idea of temperature-regulated boxes in temperature-regulated boxes in temperature-regulated boxes designed for comfortable living.

You can only own a home when you stop
Spending Saturday Mornings in the living room
Fingering yourself to Fixer Upper.


Jacob Nelson reading his poem, “Hardwood Laxatives” for the Long River Review’s 2017 Reading Series: Slam at the Benton.

Ben Schultz – Videography (Filming and Editing)
Nicholas DiBenedetto – Interviews
Brandon Marquis – Interviews
Mairead Loschi – Podcast Audio


Meet the Poet: Jacob Nelson

Prior to the reading, Poetry Editor Nicholas DiBenedetto and Creative Nonfiction Panelist Brandon Marquis sat down with Jacob to talk about his thoughts on poetry, and the role of popular culture in writing.

Brandon Marquis: So, just starting off, introduce yourself.

Jacob Nelson: I’m Jacob Nelson, I’m a senior English and Communications major, I take a lot of poetry classes, but don’t read a lot of poetry.

Nicholas DiBenedetto: Tell us a bit about what you like to write about, and what inspires your writing.

JN: Personally, I feel like in a lot of the writing and poetry that I read, it lacks a lot of modern entertainment, and modern… not necessarily references, but things like television and video games and those things are kind of seen as taboo to talk about in a form like poetry, so I like to include them as much as I can. Anything from sitcoms, to TV dramas, or video games, I like to throw them in there.

ND:  Would you consider yourself—as someone who enjoys having modern references in your approach to poetry—an ultra-talk poet or part of the ultra-talk movement?

JN: Not directly in the ultra-talk movement, because I think that that itself is a little outdated, but someone coming off of that—definitely inspired from people in that movement, people coming out of that, like a second generation, even a third generation from that movement, yeah.

ND: What’s appealing to you about having these references, whether it be to TV or film or music? Why have those in a poem, why is that important to you to explore?

JN: Well for me it’s really two things: one of them is that I fall into the idea that poetry often seems elitist to outsiders, and I think that by including more culturally prominent things to people of our age and time, it makes it more accessible; and secondly, poetry for me comes from what I’m inspired by, and that’s what happens in my day-to-day life. You know, I’m not going to Paris or walking through museums, I’m watching television and playing games and hanging out with friends, so I think that should reflect my life and not someone else’s life.

BM: So if you were in an argument with an elitist about whether or not these things, culturally prominent things should be included in poetry—whether or not they are or aren’t art—what would you say?

JN: I would ask them whether they felt comfortable reading only at some poetry club or at some museum or at some poetry event, or whether they would think that anyone could read their poems. Could someone read them in the middle of the street, and still keep up with them, or could someone read them in a Walmart, you know? I think that not all poetry has to be accessible and made for everyone, but poetry can be made accessible.

ND: Given how much I think you stress the importance of accessibility in your own writing, do you find yourself gravitating towards things like slam poetry, Button Poetry, or like Instagram poets and the kind of innovation we see with poetry in terms of video and social media integration?

JN: I’m definitely interested by that. I like watching it, I like listening to it; it’s not something that I enjoy writing. I think that for those poetry mediums there’s a different quality of something that needs to be said out loud, and said quickly and firmly. My poems aren’t that dire. They’re more something that I’d rather people read off a tablet while lying in bed and needing something funny to read, not something to sit in a chair and stand up and rally around, you know?


Jacob Nelson has been an English major for 7 semesters and still writes all of his poems on his phone while walking to the class they’re due for. He hasn’t felt shame in years.

More of Jacob’s work is forthcoming in the 2017 issue of the Long River Review.