David McLoghlin at Poetry Magazine:
At the start of the last class, Breyten took a magnum of red wine out of a tote bag and plonked it on the table among our normal-sized bottles. It was a Bordeaux, I like to think. The bottle was hilariously large, as if it had priapism, and he shared it round in paper cups, then went into full-on raconteur mode. He’d been kicking back for at least half an hour and was talking about his cottage in Catalonia, near Girona, when I interjected something about the Barri Gòtic in Barcelona, trying to assert that I also knew a lot about the locale. Breyten’s eyes slid over me. He gave the merest nod and continued his ramifying digression.
For three hours he ranged across the byways and walking trails linking poetry, Buddhism, politics, history. I realized that for the last 14 weeks he’d been listening carefully and sensitively, holding space, leaning forward, nodding. Now he seemed to be withdrawing from his teaching persona.
more here.
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