MaryAnn,

Melissa Green is the real thing, that rarest of creatures, a true poet. I don't mock artists of her calibre. I celebrate and avocate them.

I agree with your observations in your first comment. After her first two books it should've been patently obvious to those in the know that this rare and special being needed patronage and advocacy. The Melissa Green's of the world have a sacred obligation to their art, but where are their Medicis? The BU event was somewhat belated, maybe too late to save her, but I wouldn't impugn the sincerity of those who participated.

I don't know enough of Melissa's life to respond to your second comment. I don't think you are correct to suggest that her 'flawed choices' might have led to different outcomes. That seems too facile and presumptious for my way of thinking. She did express regret that she hasn't written more, and I regret that she hasn't as well. I feel that the technical mastery of The Squanicook Eclogues didn't quite evolve in a linear way into Fifty-Two. By that I mean there's a huge gaping hole in her evolution as a poet: The woman who read at BU was a new being entirely, and the intervening years are disappeared, gone. Still, I was moved by the poignant beauty of her lines; she hits the right notes, is always perfectly keyed, and her language is still unparalleled. What crept in was the oppressive presence of what had been absent before, herself, and yet I felt there's less of her now. Regret, sorrow, missed opportunities, sickness, the erosion of the spirit, all this is there now, and what we have to fill the lacuna was Walcott's anecdotal apologia.

Re your concluding remarks, I would caution against attempting to formulate generalizations about how any burgeoning artist should lead his or her life. The discussion has no useful predicative value. My view.