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      September 29, 2015What Ever Happened to …?William Trowbridge

      We read it in magazines, see it on TV:
      former child star A was stabbed
      to death in a crack deal, while B,
      who used to play the sweet old nanny
      on TV for 15 seasons, got nailed
      for running call girls, and C, cleavaged
      knockout in that surfer flick, turned
      fifty-three and lives in a Tampax carton
      underneath the Harbor Freeway,
      not to mention D, the dude groupies
      camped out in the snow to see,
      who plans a sex change when they let him
      out of Folsom. Now there’s E,
      who murdered F and G when he found
      them in a lovers’ knot at H’s Azores
      getaway, which later burned
      when H caught fire in a free-base fling
      with I through Z. It cheers us up
      to think the price tag on that Lear
      was way too much for them, too,
      that the ones still living have to dine
      on crow sautéed in gall, that another
      vacant seat at Plenty’s gala now awaits.
      It could be ours, if we could dig up
      the address and get there first.

      from #48 - Summer 2015

      William Trowbridge

      “One day while studying for my PhD comps, I came across a group of Howard Nemerov poems in the old Brinnin and Read anthology. I was bitten, seriously bitten, couldn’t stop going back to them—their music, their intelligence, their electrical charge. And then I wrote a poem. That afternoon, I was, to use a John Crowe Ransom word, ‘transmogrified’ from a budding scholar into a seedling poet. But I had neither the time nor the money to go through an MFA program. So, after graduation and in my ‘spare time’ from teaching, I continued my poetry-writing education in the college of monkey-see-monkey-do, happily learning from the poems of great, hand-picked tutors. I still attend.”

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