B. H. Fairchild (1942-)
I know nothing about B. H. Fairchild except that he’s an American, and I own a copy of his ‘Blue Buick: new and selected poems’.
I admire the man’s art. The poems are deceptively conversational, like this one celebrating Keats as craftsman The poet as maker, working at his art like a man at a lathe, wrapped up in the pleasure of making.
If you’re hurrying, you’ll miss the unobtrusive skill that went into the poem.
This is taken from ‘The Blue Buick’ Norton, 2016