Chuck Calabreze deserves to be famous. His poetry, fatuous as it may sometimes seem, contains a kernel of wisdom or intelligence or perhaps a certain je ne se quois the likes of which this century, young as it is, has not seen. Saying this, I don’t mean to demean the other writers in your--how shall I put this--“stable.” Your stable certainly contains an impressive array of horses, all of various breeds and all with their strengths, the result of centuries of careful breeding and training. Might I just suggest that Chuck Calabreze is a horse unlike any you have seen. Part Clydesdale, part eohippus, Mr. Calabreze can float or stomp, leap or just plod along for stanza after lengthy stanza. Yoked by the most ponderous philosophy or unbridled and left to wander the pastures of prehistory, restrained by the bit of form or galumphing about freely, Mr. Calabreze returns each evening with the poem secure in his horsey mouth. Chuck Calabreze deserves to be famous. Please help engender this fame by publishing one or more of the enclosed poems.
J. Scott Pemberton