Richard Wilbur II

Clearly, I am not the only one borderline obsessed with True Blood. Its near-pornographic violence and sex make me feel like I need to wash my soul out with soap after each episode. And yet: I am transfixed. The show is an addiction I have no intention of forsaking.

Given that we are amid prime True Blood season, I thought I’d give you a poem about vampires. There really aren’t enough of them, I think. This one pulls of a neat trick – by focusing on the crux of longing for vampirism, it avoids excessive corniness and makes light of its gothic trappings. I think it’s a very fine poem.

Richard Wilbur

Richard Wilbur is still alive. He gave a reading at my husband’s university about a year ago, and though I rarely attend readings (short attention span, preference for printed rather than spoken poetry – rather anomalous of me, I think), I made an exception because he is one of my favorite living poets.

The reading reminded me of why I generally prefer my poets dead. This is not to wish harm on Mr. Wilbur, but one always has notions of what one’s favorite poets ought to be like. Mr. Wilbur only very slightly accorded with mine.