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Poetry had such a robust presence, I felt like the ghosts of poets past were among us. There is one classroom in Montgomery Hall where, every time I mentioned Allen Ginsberg’s name, a window would rattle or thunder boom.

Nine years later and a continent away from that St. Mary’s River, I write as one of many witnesses: St. Mary’s College was a place to feel cared for in the world of poetry among poets who cared for the world. Lucille Clifton insisted on caring, defiantly, with conscience: “they ask me to remember/ but they want me to remember/ their memories/and I keep on remembering/ mine.”

Even now as I write, I am renewed with the memory of how one might be attuned to poetry’s strange and necessary logic, its odd and stirring music, listening, keeping the office door open, calling out a September song for the new difficult days.