A few weeks ago, Ellen Bryant Voigt died. And a couple of months before that, I held the door open for her as we all lined up for lunch at Bread Loaf. I didn't realize who she was, knowing only her name, having read it somewhere once.
I'm not well-read. It's a skill issue as the kids might say, and I'd never read Ellen's work, or understood the legacy of the living legend at my lunch table talking to Carl Phillips. It was only when I spotted her name tag that I started to flip the fuck out.
Since then, I've come to discover some of what Ellen did for people, for poets. And I am honored the universe allowed me to sit at a lunch table with her just once, knowing I'd be thankful for just that. I am in awe of people who spend their lives investing in others and making them feel seen. Every word from any poet about any poem I've written is seared into my heart and mind—the kind words, the difficult ones too. Michael Burns telling me to stop pretending I'm from somewhere else. Tomás Q. Morín telling me he wouldn't change anything about my poem. Todd Dillard showing me what lines to cut. Matthew Nienow telling me what he loves about my latest draft.
Ellen invented the low-residency program. It started as an experiment with Louise Glück at Goddard College. It eventually moved to Warren Wilson College. I wish I'd said hello and asked for the selfie I wanted. Instead, I just sat there with a stupid grin on my face and eyes wide open like a dog.
