Links to Share to Help Poet Dean Young

I've just learned that a favorite poet of mine, Dean Young, is in need of a heart transplant.  I learned of Dean's work in 2002 when I bought this book, Skid (Pitt Poetry Series) and loved it.  I've never met him in person or heard him read, but it's funny how you feel close to poets whose books you love.



Needing (and asking) for help can be tough to do, but his friend, poet Tony Hoagland (author of What Narcissism Means to Me and Donkey Gospel) wrote a heartfelt letter for Dean sharing what we can do to help if you'd like to know more: click on this link.



And then I learned of this blog, by Dean Young's nephew, Seth Pollins.  Another touching letter and info on where to write Dean directly if you feel so inclined.



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I don't have much to add to this, but just wanted to share the info with you if you haven't heard.  And to share a poem by Dean Young, from the Poetry Foundation:







Dear Friend

What will be served for our receptionin the devastation? Finger food, of courseand white wine, something printed on the napkins.

We were not children togetherbut we are now. Every bird knowsonly two notes constantly rearranged.

That's called forever so we wear pajamasto the practice funeral, buckeroosto the end. We make paper hatsof headlines and float them away.

My home made of smoke,tiny spider made of punctuation,my favorite poem is cinderscratched into a sidewalk.

My friend's becoming the simplest man,he sees a lesson in everything,in missing his train,in his son hollering from the first branch,Dad, guess where I am.

I was with him for my first magpies,governmental and acting like hell.And the new nickelwith Washington hard to recognize.

We'd driven by a Rabbit flattenedby an upset truck, jars of Miracle Whipbroken over the toll road in heavy snow.

We watched an old ladyeat a hot dog in a bunwith a knife and fork.

A few emeralds winged offa fruit leaf.

What happens when your head splits openand the bird flies out, its two notes deranged?You got better, I got better,wildflowers rimmed the crater,glitter glitter glitter.

We knew someone whose father diedthen we knew ourselves.Astronomer, gladiator,thief, a tombstone salesman.

All our vacations went to the seathat breathed two times a daywithout a machine.We got in trouble with a raftdoing what we promised not to.

Further out to be brought further back.

There's my friend in his squashed hattrying to determine if a dotis a living thing and do no harm.

He's having trouble remembering street namesbut there's still plenty of Thoreau.

All that a human is made of is gold,very very little gold.