The other day, Stanley Kunitz died. Stanley was the nation's poet laureate. And he was 100 years old. I read his obituary with interest inasmuch as Stanley was one of the people who passed through my life. I unfortunately was too young when I met Stanley. He had just become the recipient of a Pulitizer and he and I inhabited different worlds...his was generally about twelve inches above the ground. At the time, I was in his poetry class, the first one he gave at Queens College where he seemed to spend most of his time receiving adulation from the rest of the faculty. For Stanley, I think I was somewhat of a defeat: He told me that I was one of the worst students in his poetry class. Little did he know that later on, I would come to love the poetry of the Beat and would spend a great deal of time with other luminaries trying to hack out poems that mimicked Ferlenghetti and Russo and the others over pots of Irish coffee. Of course, we were all ruled by Howl! the book that changed a generation along with On the Road and the Dwarma Bums.... Yet, at this particular point in time, I was still struggling with my hyperbole, alliteration and syntax to be considered a serious poet. I thought of these things as I read his obit and learned more about the man than I ever did in person. The last time I saw or heard about Stanley, it was during a documentary about his garden and his writings that occupied his time up in Provincetown. Stanley, however, while he summered on the Cape loved New York City and maintained an apartment downtown where he could be close to all of those creative muses. I'll miss Stanley although I would doubt that he would have known me if I had crossed paths with him after graduation. He was truly unique and his poetry was of a kind that you don't hear much of any more tinged with classicism and ancient voices. Here's to you Stanley. May your voice carry on to add a little humanity to the din that makes up our overly commercialized world.