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February 12, 2003
How beautiful are the poets, with their flushed faces and wild hair and burning eyes and carefully insouciant dress and yes still black turtlenecks and goatees, berets and sweaters with holes at the elbows, a choir of voices singing infinite variations on themes of courage and resistance, power and humanity, fragility and endurance, art and artillery and hard-learned lessons of accountability, now ranting now whispering anger pain admiration incantation inspiration observation opposition confusion clarity disparity but not despair, so much history, so much here we go again, so much feeling only a room overflowing with radiant conviction can handle it.