I must admit to being more than a little dismayed by the cynicism with which you approach his collection — indeed, his whole oeuvre. Certainly, all “autobiographical” (a.k.a. “confessional”) poets come in for critiques, from some readers, of their willingness to create poetry from some of the most gritty, sensational, and/or painful elements of their lives (even as this approach wins them gratitude and adulation from others). But I don’t commonly see such poets suspected of taking up those subjects in their writing largely for financial gain. (“I don’t know whether Eady is drawn to this material because he can write it perfectly, or because he knows that it will sell. Both, I hope.”)

There are reasons beyond either of those you mentioned for writing poems like Eady’s, including that of recording the miracle that in a country as ungenerous as this one is to those who are black and to the poor, an African American man could be so lucky as to make his way far enough out of poverty to buy a small, old, fixer-upper “weekend place” in an area that has not (yet) been deemed desirable — as Eady describes it in “Honeymoon,” “Cairo, NY,” “The Hammer,” and “Migration” (as opposed to the “vacation home” you call it). The poems in *Hardheaded Weather* chart the odds against this — including the extreme unlikelihood of poetry being his way out.

To those who might find compelling the “small musics” and powerful truths of a “black, American poet” who has “a natural inability to sustain rage” (phrases from his stunning poem “Gratitude”), I join you in recommending Eady’s collection.

Peace.

(P.S. He does not call himself a babbling monkey. He really doesn’t.)