News has a way of turning on its head. A few months ago, one Mr. Assange was the daring rebel of the world's media, arguably the man of the year; now, he is one step away from a trial for sex crimes, and potentially, a death-penalty trial in the US for treason; his semi-autobiography is a dud; and he is seen for the strange arrogant man he likely is. Meanwhile, one-time Godfather of fast food, Mr. Cain, the other day the one to beat to beat Obama, is now mired in sleaze, and bumbling. The media throws such characters up the pop charts. But they do, eventually, fall.
THAT HANDSOME MAN A PERSONAL BRIEF REVIEW BY TODD SWIFT I could lie and claim Larkin, Yeats , or Dylan Thomas most excited me as a young poet, or even Pound or FT Prince - but the truth be told, it was Thom Gunn I first and most loved when I was young. Precisely, I fell in love with his first two collections, written under a formalist, Elizabethan ( Fulke Greville mainly), Yvor Winters triad of influences - uniquely fused with an interest in homerotica, pop culture ( Brando, Elvis , motorcycles). His best poem 'On The Move' is oddly presented here without the quote that began it usually - Man, you gotta go - which I loved. Gunn was - and remains - so thrilling, to me at least, because so odd. His elegance, poise, and intelligence is all about display, about surface - but the surface of a panther, who ripples with strength beneath the skin. With Gunn, you dressed to have sex. Or so I thought. Because I was queer (I maintain the right to lay claim to that
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