I was wondering this morning whether if each insane massacre was basically ignored by the media, if it received the most minimal coverage possible on page 18 of the paper, would that remove a big incentive? Isn’t the publicity a huge part of it?
In any case, this poem has nothing to do with anything except those wonderful yellow primroses that bloom at dusk. Rita Dove, its author, was US Poet Laureate some years ago.
Neither rosy nor prim,
not cousin to the cowslip
nor the extravagant fuchsia—
I doubt anyone has ever
picked one for show,
though the woods must be fringed
with their lemony effusions. Continue reading “Ignoring the news”