I was not in Kenward’s social world but I met him in the late ‘60s when we were at gatherings. I would prep my nerve and try to be sharp in conversation with him. I meant to honor him by indicating my knowledge of and attention to his writing. He appreciated the attention of straight young poets. From the late ‘60s into the ‘70s he hosted Valentine’s Day parties at his home on Greenwich Avenue and I was an invitee—I lived in the opposite city beyond Avenue B.

When he edited his own magazine—Z, ZZ, ZZZ etc.—in the ‘70s, I was shy of submitting work. In ‘83, however, he requested a manuscript for his Z Press. I had been writing prose poems for several years. I sent him 40, he chose 30 and when Where the Weather Suits My Clothes was published in ‘84 it was beautifully designed and formatted. I felt like the king of a mostly sunny country.

We poets of all ages wondered why Kenward was not alongside the famous four as a foundational New York Poet. Kenward never accommodated conventions as the big four seemed to over time. His poems are unfettered, madcap and elegant. He grafted imagination to a rich vocabulary and they present as an iconoclastic unity—his mind. He was a brilliant stand-up entertainer of comic sophistication and sang with a full baritone voice. It’s as if in his poems Kenward stands on the 10 meter platform and executes a perfect olympian dive: double gainer, inside jackknife, double back flip, swan finish.

After a surge of collections published in the ‘70s, his skills adapted to contexts of real feeling, of expressions of grief and loss. A generous prince of poésie.