Three Long Mountains, and a Wood
When I was a teenager, my mother and I went to New England, and in Maine we visited the home of Edna St. Vincent Millay. At the time I didn’t know much about this poet who meant so much to another poet whose work I admire, Mary Oliver.
Back then I did not know Millay was a spoken-word poet who could throw down. I did not know she was 20 when she wrote “Renascence,” and that when she entered the poem in a contest it only earned a fourth-place prize but grew to become more popular than the first place-winner. I did know that a friend had memorized the opening lines of “Renascence” by heart, and so I decided I should too.
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