My feelings about the poetry of Edward Hirsch are troublesome to me. They’re similar, I think, to my feelings about gin and French cinema–I like the idea a good deal more than the reality. This is not to say I don’t appreciate his work; I do. When I read him, I admire his skill and his touch, the complexity of feeling and thought, and the way each poem seems to know and take its place in relation to all poems that have gone before. But I rarely get that high, white hum reading him--that feeling that the world is going to be a very different place when I lift my eyes from the page.