I went this past weekend to the Dodge Poetry Festival with the wife and a good friend. It was fun, and a voyage of discovery in the best way. Walking through a brisk bright autumn day in a city alive with a glimmer of culture was electrifying. The wallowing misery of “blood-drenched candle” poets was largely elbowed aside for the gregarious talents of popular poets who are nonetheless quite skilled. One was James Richardson, a Princeton professor, who read aphorisms and his poetry in a small Baptist Church in the heart of Newark. Even as he followed the power of Rita Dove, he was a force to be reckoned with in a quiet, stolid way. I let him take it from here.