Stanley Plumly, a poet who served as the poet laureate of Maryland for nine years, died on April 11 from complications of multiple myeloma. He was 79 years old. According to his obituary in the Washington Post, Plumly’s poetry, “drew on images of nature and the sometimes dark and troubled memories of his youth. “

Adrienne and I first met Stanley and his wife in Shepherdstown, West Virginia, eight years ago. He was one of the speakers at a weekend poetry seminar at Shepherd University and was staying at bed and breakfast where we were also staying. We weren’t attending the seminar, but when introduced at the communal breakfast table, I recognized who he was. A masterful storyteller, Stanley shared stories of his past that kept Adrienne and me enraptured long after breakfast was over. When he departed the B&B about an hour later, he left us the bottle of red wine he and his wife hadn’t finished the night before. When we attended the public reading for the publication of his volume Old Heart several months later in Washington, D.C., he graciously signed not only my copy of his book, but also an empty bottle of one of our favorite red wines (the featured image of this post). He loved that we remembered our mutual appreciation for red wine.

Although Stanley died from cancer, he had heart disease that he inherited from his alcoholic father, who died when he was 56 years old, and Stanley often referenced it. In tribute to Stanley, here are some lines from his poem, “Eleven,” about his heart:

When I saw my heart lit up on the screen,
the arteries, veins and ventricles
all functioning, pictured, as if removed,
in picture-space, I knew that this is
what is meant by distance, the way, flying
once at forty thousand feet, the needle nose
of the needle flashing in the sun, traveling
alone, and nothing but clarity under us,
I felt like a visitor inside my own body.
I could see myself invisible on the ground
following the threadbare vapor trail. We

claim the body as a temple or cathedral,
meaning the house in which I am that I am,
breath and bone, water, mortar, earth.

Fly, Stanley, fly, your body, a temple, a cathedral.

Look for Part Three of “The Cruelest Month” tomorrow — about the death of one of my dearest canine friends.