Comparing Koch to Montaigne is very good - I'll be thinking about that. It's a great comparison. For both of them, their friendships were immensely important, and both said as much. The pitch of the writing is at this intimate level, it has a you-and-I-talkingness to it. And they had a casual and unobnoxious way of unfolding something like wisdom--a word we're mostly embarrassed by now. But Koch also wrote works like When the Sun Tries to Go Down--much more "abstract" language-oriented poems, as did all the NY poets. I'd like to see someone make some necessary connections between those works and the more discursive poems of One Train--how is one the seed of the other? And who is that other Koch? Rabelais? Anyway, thanks for another great post. Between one PF blogger feting Sarah Browning and another, Ken Koch, it's been a good week. And now back to reading A Nocturnal Upon St. Lucy's Day, it being December 13th and all.

When the Sun Tries to Go On. When the Sun Tries to Go Down was written by Koch's evil alter ego, Bizarro Kenneth.

Et maintenant vous etes un Ange pour de vrai.

Kenneth Koch has been the love (and poet) of my life. And "One Train..." the most important poem/philosophy I've ever encountered. Simple and not. Thanks for this. (Will try to backchannel, yes--).

I never knew him either, but, you know, I knew him. And I miss him too.

A delight to be reminded of these poems. Thinking of Wendy Cope, I was also put in mind what a terrific parodist Koch is. His perfect takes on Frost and Williams always make me laugh out loud.

Dear Ange, that channel's no love? Email me at heavydaughter@yahoo.com if you want to. Either way, cheers!

Well, I think through your blog you’re doing a great job of imparting the pure delight of reading poems. You know, at least through our physically isolated 21st century cyber method. It seems like you also share the infectious urgency that Koch did. Thanks, it’s wonderful, rare and refreshing. I also wish I could tell Koch what a humane, friendly pleasure it is to read his poems. I figure the next best way is to keep putting out in the world stuff that he would say, “Oh, that’s SO good.” How return the favor? How about a (flawed) description of what it was like to take his classes.

In walks a tall, white-haired, bespectacled…eccentric? He’s reading a newspaper aloud and trying to make a poem out of it. Is he even…buffoonish? Not at this institution. But he’s wearing a scarf in the middle of September. I don’t think he’s one of those adjunct guys, and has been here for a long time. But there! He’s calling her ‘etudiante.’ No, wait …it’s making sense now. He’s just jumped around the history of philosophy and modern poetry, connecting – slanting? – the dots in a way I know I won’t even begin to understand until years down the road. But are you allowed to be this passionate, about anything, let alone, in public? Emphatic refrain #1: “Poetry is an experience, not a description of an experience.” He’s thinking aloud again, disowning and rethinking a line he’s just improvised as an example. None of the other professors seem to be this opinionated either. “You don’t have to like Whitman. (pause) But it’s a weakness if you don’t.” Assignment: “Write a Star Trek episode with the characters in the voices of Dickinson, Apollinaire, Mayakovsky and Williams.” I began to think dumb thoughts, like anyone who’s lucky enough to be sitting in this class and who later becomes a lawyer or a banker, will be committing a mortal SIN. I still didn’t get it. I went to the bookstore to check out Koch’s poetry. What do these zany abstractions have to do with anything? With life? It’s way too out there, too distant. Yet I’ve never experienced anyone so inspired, so remotely – which words to choose to come up frustratingly short – osmosisly intoxicating to the point of inciting a simultaneous group-molt? I wasn’t getting his poetry, but something was happening. My hand hurt. I was one of those students who sat in the back of the class and didn’t dare speak a word, but I was writing notes furiously as if my life depended on it, and remember other students glancing at me like I had a problem. I did. I do.

Later I got to know Kenneth a little bit outside of class. I took some poems to him that I wrote, yet he rigorously tried to get out of reading them. “Don’t you have any friends who write poetry or anyone who can take a look at these?” No, sorry. “You know, I sit on these poetry panels and usually what I like nobody else seems to like, and vice versa.” That’s fine with me. “I’m really not the best person to evaluate other people’s work.” Pause. “Ok, here, read this while I look at them.” Waiting there in his office for his assessment, I knew that I would be getting a brutally honest answer, not a glossy one. I was happy with his reply and the one after that just before he passed away. But of course, it’s another impromptu zinger that sticks out most: “If you want your dentist to read your poems, aim for the New Yorker.”

For those new to Koch, in addition to the poems mentioned by Ange, I’d also add, as a possible starting point of working your way in: Days and Nights, Paradiso and Mountain.