About 10 years ago, Ed Skoog introduced me to the poetry of Douglas Stewart, which I love. I probably love it with extra insistence because nobody else seems to know about it — I’m a proselytizer. But I’d love it regardless. Stewart was like a 20th-century John Clare of the Australian bush, if Clare had possessed an “Audenesque air of jaunty reasonableness.” Read the sonnet “Yarrangobilly” and know that Stewart wrote hundreds of poems like it.
the poet in topeka 