When it comes to the arts, quantity and quality both matter. One of the reasons Pablo Picasso became the embodiment of modern art in Europe is because of his ceaseless production, and ability to master and destroy whole schools of painting before creating his own. That said, a poet like Walt Whitman essentially spent his whole professional life writing and re-writing one collection of poetry which we now know of as the timeless Leaves of Grass.

The name John Cazale might not ring a bell at every dinner table in America tonight, but for cinephiles Cazale was an actor’s actor who played unforgettable supporting roles in five masterpieces before dying at the age of 43 in 1978. This year we remember the 40th anniversary of the late great actor’s death. But, more importantly, we remember the wounded humanity and comic timing he brought to his roles in The Godfather, The Godfather: Part II, The Conversation, Dog Day Afternoon and The Deer Hunter.

Here’s John’s co-star, acting partner and “little brother,” Al Pacino remembering his friend…

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Philip Levine, poet and son of Detroit, died on Valentine’s Day. He was an accomplished man who’d lived a long life, but anytime we lose a voice like his the silence it leaves behind is a roaring one. Levine’s poetry reached back to William Carlos Williams’ confrontations with the blunt facts of reality, and the cosmic democracy of Walt Whitman to fashion a contemporary verse that celebrated “the small heroics of getting through the day when the day doesn’t give a shit.”

Here’s a great clip of the great man from the Anarchism in America documentary…

Here’s one of the poet’s classics, from the Poetry Foundation…

What Work Is
BY PHILIP LEVINE

We stand in the rain in a long line
waiting at Ford Highland Park. For work.
You know what work is—if you’re
old enough to read this you know what
work is, although you may not do it.
Forget you. This is about waiting,
shifting from one foot to another.
Feeling the light rain falling like mist
into your hair, blurring your vision
until you think you see your own brother
ahead of you, maybe ten places.
You rub your glasses with your fingers,
and of course it’s someone else’s brother,
narrower across the shoulders than
yours but with the same sad slouch, the grin
that does not hide the stubbornness,
the sad refusal to give in to
rain, to the hours of wasted waiting,
to the knowledge that somewhere ahead
a man is waiting who will say, “No,
we’re not hiring today,” for any
reason he wants. You love your brother,
now suddenly you can hardly stand
the love flooding you for your brother,
who’s not beside you or behind or
ahead because he’s home trying to
sleep off a miserable night shift
at Cadillac so he can get up
before noon to study his German.
Works eight hours a night so he can sing
Wagner, the opera you hate most,
the worst music ever invented.
How long has it been since you told him
you loved him, held his wide shoulders,
opened your eyes wide and said those words,
and maybe kissed his cheek? You’ve never
done something so simple, so obvious,
not because you’re too young or too dumb,
not because you’re jealous or even mean
or incapable of crying in
the presence of another man, no,
just because you don’t know what work is.

Stay Awake!

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