Early Poems by Edna St. Vincent Millay (1921)

An anthology of Edna St. Vincent Millay's first three books.

Poetry Review: Early Poems, a collection from Dover Thrift Editions of Edna St. Vincent Millay's first three books, shows it's still possible to get a lot for a little. The most famous photograph of Millay is on the cover. Her first book, Renascence and Other Poems (1917), was published when Millay was 25. The controversial title poem, more than 200 lines, was entered in a contest when she was just 19 and published the next year. These poems demonstrate Millay's early experimenting, reflect her influences, and often look back to great poets of the past. Her second work, A Few Figs from Thistles, was originally published in 1920, with a second expanded edition released in 1922. This book shows a daring bohemian nature and a confident, independent woman of the Roaring Twenties (the 1920's, of course). The poetry world wasn't quite ready for an in-your-face poetess, but readers were and A Few Figs from Thistles was popular and created a stir. Millay began her mature work with her third book, Second April (1921), which opens with the scintillating "Spring." That poems ends: "Life in itself/Is nothing,/An empty cup a flight of uncarpeted stairs./It is not enough that yearly, down this hill,/April/Comes like an idiot, babbling and strewing flowers." The book is filled with a variety of accomplished works, including the six-part "Memorial" and twelve sonnets. Many of the poems are concerned with broken romances, death, and dying. Making the reader reflect and identify. More than just reading the three books, however, is that this collection was only $3.50. What a gift that Dover makes so much great work so easily accessible. I believe the British have something similar to Dover in Wordsworth Editions, and I hope other countries do also. Many thanks to those publishers who make great literature available to those who can least afford it, especially when a good library may not be nearby. Sometimes the whole is greater than the parts.  [5★]

Fear of Dancing: The Red Moon Anthology 2013 ed. by Jim Kacian (2014)

The annual collection of the best in haiku-related writing.

Poetry Review: Fear of Dancing is the 18th edition of this annual compilation. Poets as varied as Richard Wright, Jack Kerouac, Etheridge Knight, and Sonia Sanchez have written books of haiku. Poets such as Ezra Pound, Wallace Stevens, and William Carlos Williams have written poems influenced by haiku. I try to "sell" haiku and its relatives as an adult art form (for some of us it's how we learned to count syllables in elementary school). It's a way to briefly express one's creativity, the talent required dependent more on one's powers of observation than on sitzfleisch. For those who enjoy reading or writing haiku it may increase mindfulness, awareness, and closeness to nature or the world around us. A perfect form for walkers and those who may "feel" more than philosophize. One can employ the 5/7/5 syllabic form but there's no requirement. It's a very democratic art form. I often think of how Emily Dickinson could find the universe in her minute observations. But enough of my mild evangelism. Fear of Dancing is much like the previous collections, always of high quality and excellently produced. There are 154 poems here from various publications around the world throughout the year, varied as can be. From the gently humorous title piece: "writing cursive/my unspoken fear/of dancing", to the more poignant: "but stop/the old man/never gets on". Other favorites were "unpicked apples/we promise/to keep in touch" and "thistledown scatters the visible breeze". There are also five essays that can be a bit overly serious, but also highly informative and validating (other people are thoughtful about haiku!). They cover subjects from English versus Latin roots in English-language haiku, an interview with scholar Makoto Ueda (who notes that ten million Japanese write haiku, which are published in over 800 "little magazines"), synesthesia, and modern or avant-garde forms. For anyone interested or curious about the various forms of haiku Fear of Dancing, or any of the annual editions (all are in print), is an invaluable resource and treasury.  [5★]

Because It Is by Kenneth Patchen (1960)

A collection of poems by the multimedia writer and dedicated pacifist, Kenneth Patchen (1911-1972).

Poetry Review: Because It Is is not the best place to start with Kenneth Patchen. It's not his best work, it's not really representative of his style, it's an odd collection even for him. The content is more like prose poems broken into lines, and more like an intoxicated Edward Lear spouting random gibberish in an amusing but nonsensical way. Others may think of James Joyce or Lewis Carroll. Puns, portmanteau words, silly juxtapositions. Absurdist. Dada. A lobster on a leash. And each poem is accompanied by one of Patchen's drawings, illustrating less or more some aspect of the piece, none like the Thurberesque dog portrayed on the cover. Each poem begins with "Because ..." and concludes with a more profound statement than anything that came before. For example, a poem might begin "Because she felt bashful with palm trees," or "Because a door in the hill opened," or "Because going nowhere takes a long time." A poem might include a line such as "pasting vile tasting labels on cans," or "Oh, flaming pig in a frockcoat," or "a supply of used burro stoppers." And a poem might conclude "There are days nobody gets break," or "Keeping her damn snapping turtles in my back-pocket," or "Our lives are watching us  -- but not from earth." No one can tell which beginning ended with which conclusion. The poems in Because It Is are fun and mildly if briefly entertaining, mostly for their sheer oddness. And occasionally there's a line that, all by itself, makes the reader stop and think, such as: "the several/Systems for preventing rain from falling upward," or "When we love,/God thinks in us," or "trying to dry water on a cold fire." Overall I most enjoyed the drawings. Although I like to believe that I'm a free thinker and know that poems can be most anything, in my heart of hearts I would call most of the poems here doggerel and amusements and not so much poetry. This sort of thing was not characteristic of Patchen's work, which could be infinitely touching and meaningful. I think he agrees with me because no poems from Because It Is were included in his Selected Poems (1957) or Collected Poems (1968); the latter was an awesome labor of love by all concerned. Although not his best or most representative work, it does abound in silliness and Because It Is is still another volume that sits on a shelf in the limitless archive of wrongly forgotten American poets.  [3½★]

old song: The Red Moon Anthology 2017 ed. by Jim Kacian, et al. (2018)

The Red Moon Anthology of English-language haiku 2017.

Poetry Review: old song is the 2017 installment of this annual, quality anthology by Red Moon Press, that's been published since 1996. Every year a few thousand haiku nominated from around the world are winnowed down and selected for inclusion in this collection. Alert: few if any are of the traditional 5/7/5 syllable-counting exercise we learned in grade school. What is most striking is the wide diversity contained in these pages. Haiku from the United Kingdom, Spain, Germany, Canada, Australia, China, Sweden, Ireland, Japan, India, Ukraine, Montenegro, Slovenia, Turkey, and the U.S. are included in just the first 50 pages. Even more diverse is the subject matter within, the perspectives are endless. These are genuine efforts to capture some aspect of life and the world in three lines or less. Some of the haiku are light,

   yoga class
   my corpse pose
   draws a fly

some are personal,

   soft rain ...
   the way the oncologist
   says "we"

there's the political,

   syrian truce
   first snow falling on
   a roofless town

and some seek to capture some eternal truth in a moment,

   priest's handshake
   leaves that still cling
   to the tree

With the best haiku various interpretations are equally possible. I'm not a member of the haiku community, but somewhere, sometime ago, thanks to Basho, Peter Pauper Press, and R.H. Blyth I became seriously enamored of the form as a way to capture or illuminate a moment. It's very individual, private, intimate, mine. Haiku is not for everyone, but for those who find it and reach some level of understanding it can become a comforting part of life. Other than the wholly conventional forms, whatever Platonic ideal one has of haiku can be found here with some guaranteed to resonate. My personal vision of the form is very restricted, but even I found work by like-minded people inside. By my, or perhaps your, definition not all of pieces in old song are haiku. Some are simply abbreviated poems. But that's just fine; I like short poems. In addition to this treasury (to be treasured) of haiku, there are a number of "linked forms" in which the haiku is incorporated into a short narrative to striking effect. There's also scholarly, thoughtful and erudite essays on the form that simultaneously proclaim: (1) this is an adult pastime, not child's play; and (2) there's a whole world of haiku out there for the solitary watcher scribbling short poems in a pocket notebook (or on your phone) while being in and of the world. Even if the essays may seem a bit too much, they will still welcome you into a dimension where haiku writing is a part of life. When one begins to see the world through a haiku prism, that vision becomes a third eye, therapy, or a new voice for song. For anyone who writes, loves, or is curious about haiku, short poems, moments of enlightenment or wry chuckles, old song is a perfect place to begin. All the previously published editions are still available from Red Moon Press (they can be addicting).  [4★]

No Time for Dancing by Adam Hammer (2010)

A posthumous chapbook published in 2010, apparently from an unfinished manuscript left by the author of Deja Everything (1979).

Poetry Review: No Time for Dancing is a short collection, 15 poems over 24 pages, from the Acme Poem Company Chapbook Series by Willow Springs Books. Valuable as it contributes to the scant legacy of lost and virtually forgotten American surrealist poet, Adam Hammer (1948-84). No one else did what he did, finding the humor in surrealism and the absurdity in our society. American Surrealism at its most incisive, with a coagulating drop of Dada. The little we have includes a chapbook from 1970, On a Train, Sleeping from Barn Dream Press and Pym-Randall Press, containing 10 poems, one of which ("Paul Jumps Every Day") is included here. Next is his only full length work, Deja Everything on Lynx House Press, which included four pieces from his 1970 chapbook. Deja Everything gave full expression to his one-of-a-kind, no-one-like-him vision, and I've reviewed elsewhere. Then we have this posthumous and penultimate collection of 15 poems published in 2010, No Time for Dancing, which is volume 1 in the Acme Poem Company Chapbook Series. One of the poems contained herein is the "Acme Poem Company," which notes that said company does not offer various services: "repairing parachutes ... french lessons to raccoons ... putting out forest files ... poison pez letters ... kneesocks for the deaf ... minnow euthanasia." There you have a forest taste of Adam Hammer. I don't know when these poems were written, before or after Deja Everything, but they have less of the exuberant humor of that work, and instead present a darker, more bitter, intense, and personal, almost at times a confessional reality. Poem titles include "How Does It Feel to Be a Nun?", "Old Couple about to Die," "Ponies Exploding in Springtime," "Fun With Death." The piece entitled "As An Intellectual" proceeds to its first line "I'm a total flop," then adds "I preface a few words with 'neo-' and 'quasi-'/ And am immediately offered a promotion." The poem "The Ocean of Wire" concludes: "You are playing/ a game of darts/ with gravity,/ and you are losing." The title poem ends "The studious mitten./ No time for dancing./ A cello is a disaster/ to a dead person" (which last two lines popped up before in Deja Everything). The collection ending poem, "It Was Night," perhaps the best in the book, begins "we were in love/ i guess/ dull evening antelopes/ moaned in the distance/ or maybe they didn't/ who cares/ we were in love ..." and goes on until "it was nice/ we got buried in lava/ that was nice/ we were very close/ we were very nice." Hammer also notes that "In France, children use their own eyelids as sails" and "What this country needs is a collie in every glove compartment." And one of my favorites:

"Gee, it's spring
And all the little deer
Are shivering in their little deer-socks
It's time to unwrap
The kittens
Whose lips are to gauze
What minnows are to springtime ... ."

Surprisingly, there was a later sighting of Hammer's work. Six of his poems were published in the Winter 2013 (33.1) issue of the impressive literary journal, Pleiades. One of which, "As Like," was selected for inclusion in the esteemed The Best American Poetry 2014. The same issue of the magazine also contained a revealing essay by Christopher Howell, "(Re)Introducing Adam Hammer," telling us a more about this lost but not-quite-forgotten poet. "Not quite forgotten," because although there are few reviews of Hammer's work on Amazon, those that are there rave ecstatically. No Time for Dancing is a welcome and valuable addition to what we know of Adam Hammer, and gives hope that more will surface of a writer who was like no other, who created poems that were individual and unique beyond cliche and influence, lost in the wide desert of American poetry.  [5★]

Abacus by Mary Karr (1987)

The first book by the noted memoirist, a collection of 35 early poems.

Poetry Review: Abacus is a mature and thoughtful first book of poetry. Published eight years before her first astonishing memoir, The Liars' Club, it already contains the self-reflection which made that book successful and eye-opening. Much poetry since the days of Sexton and Plath contains elements of obvious autobiography, poetry and memoir share a close relationship, wondering do we classify it as fiction or nonfiction. In Abacus we see that Mary Karr was writing memoir from the beginning, just in poetry instead of prose. Consider such lines from this book as:

• "I know the Perrys will be taking down the lawn chairs"
• "You took them home to make a purple pie/ that stained my mouth and your hands"
• "Ginnie ... got a heart-shaped/ locket, then a shotgun wedding ring"
• "I hauled the army footlocker thunking/ up the basement stairs."

Each could be the grain of sand enwrapped by the full story that becomes a pearl in one of her memoirs to come. Many of the poems are the unabashedly romantic memories of someone living life richly, reflecting on bohemian larks, ex-lovers, and adventures. She writes of hitting the road much like a latter day Kerouac drinking champagne in a kimono and pearls; she's not above a sense of myth making:

• "I was full of sex and Russian novels and the college/ we couldn't afford"
• "I stole my mother's face,/ growing into her high heels,/ her taste for alcohol and men"
• "After high school I ran away to the coast/ slept in a pink Lincoln Continental on blocks/ ... At night I traveled everywhere on LSD"
• "In Paris where I use a cigarette/ for my night light."

The book's title comes from the poem "The Distance," in which a lover's gift of a pearl is "strung now with the rest, your gifts,/ my abacus of love and hate." As can be seen from the above lines, Karr's poetry is mostly straightforward and accessible as one would expect from someone who would later publish a pot-stirring essay titled "Against Decoration" in Parnassus in 1991. The poems can almost be read like prose, which is no criticism, and shows hints of Sylvia Plath ("Vampire") and Neruda ("Exile's Letter"). Some of the best pieces in Abacus discuss the long death of her beloved father in painful, sharp-edged syllables. As a first book one might expect it to be short, but as we'd learn Mary Karr was never prolific; she was too busy living life.  [4★]

Morning Haiku by Sonia Sanchez (2010)

A series of haiku sequences that are as passionate as any poetry written.

Poetry Review: Morning Haiku is not made of haiku in any traditional sense. They are not in the common  5/7/5 syllable count nor do they contain other conventional aspects of haiku such as a seasonal word or reference. Instead these are haiku as written by Sonia Sanchez, short imagist and impressionistic poems that are always powerful and transcendent. They employ metaphor and other poetic techniques rarely seen in haiku. Some would say these aren't haiku at all (and I can see that), but no one can deny that these inscribed moments are heartfelt and overflow with passion that touches the bone. I believe every word. Unique to this collection is that it's written in multiple haiku sequences, such as ten, 14, or 21 poem series. Almost all recognize and are dedicated to an African American (and one Latina) artist or leader of her time. Jazz artists such as Max Roach or Ray Brown, singers such as Odetta or Sarah Vaughan, writers such as Toni Morrison or Maya Angelou, painters, politicians, peace workers and more. What I especially appreciated is that although some of these touch dark lows in remembering those who have passed (Emmett Till), others celebrate the ecstatic joys, highs, and feelings of lives fully lived, and celebrating those who gave so much (Shirley Chisholm, Barbara Jordan). In Morning Haiku we get how Sonia Sanchez sees these folks, her vision, which may not match your own, but she shares sensation, rapture, and strength. For jazz drummer Man Roach she wrote "your hands/shimmering on the/legs of rain." For a friend she says, "You held us/with summer stained/smiles of hope." I don't know what a summer-stained smile is, but I get it. For blues and folk singer Odetta (one of the best sequences): "saluted our/ blood until we were/ no longer strangers." For jazz bassist Ray Brown: "hammering/ nails into the/ off ... beat." Other favorite suites of haiku were "haiku woman" and the concluding 9/11 poem. In her introductory "haikuography" Sanchez remembers that when she read her first Japanese haiku she "slid down onto the floor and cried and was changed. i had found me." Morning Haiku is Sonia Sanchez writing herself, her own Western, her own American, haiku. Straight from the hole in the soul, her recognitions of the world and the people in it.  [4★]

The Pill Versus the Springhill Mine Disaster by Richard Brautigan (1969)

Richard Brautigan's first commercially published book of poetry (at age 33), including new poems and works collected from his earlier alternatively published books.

Poetry Review: The Pill Versus the Springhill Mine Disaster collects poetry from 1957 to 1968, including previously unpublished poems. Published the same year as Woodstock, the collection embodies the spirit of the Sixties while capturing personal, emotional moments and predicting the poetry of the future. Richard Brautigan (1935-84) was too late for the Beats, but too early for the hippies. Caught somewhere between he was just himself, one of a kind, and also a novelist (best known for In Watermelon Sugar). While he was not Whitman, Plath (his contemporary), or even Ginsberg (the leading Beat poet), it doesn't matter as it's easy to grow fond of his simple, direct, emotional poetry. Brautigan's work at times resembles what we now call tumblr poetry, Twitter poetry, or internet poetry: "I lift the toilet seat/as if it were the nest of a bird/and I see cat tracks/all around the edge of the bowl." Or, "It's so nice/to wake up in the morning/all alone/and not have to tell somebody/you love them/when you don't love them/any more." The poetry can also be absurd: "Death is a beautiful car parked only/to be stolen on a street lined with trees/whose branches are like the intestines/of an emerald." Or, "There are doors/that want to be free/from their hinges to/fly with perfect clouds." Some are surreal: "a cybernetic forest/filled with pines and electronics/where deer stroll peacefully/past computers/as if they were flowers." Or, "his coffin travels/like the fingers/of Beethoven/over a glass/of wine." Or, "Fish swim between our ribs/and sea gulls cry like mirrors/to our blood." Sometimes they're boldly straightforward and heartbreakingly honest: "I live in the Twentieth Century/and you lie here beside me. You/were unhappy when you fell asleep ... there's nothing/I can do to make you happy/while you sleep." Or, "I had a lot of trouble making/up my mind whether to eat Chinese/food or have a hamburger. God,/I hate eating dinner alone. It's/like being dead." These poems may make you want to write poetry, such as the ineffably sweet "Your Catfish Friend." Rock groups and pop culture of the time get a good mention ("The day they busted the Grateful Dead/was like a flight of winged alligators"). His poems are rare for the time in that they can be read straight through like a novel. Although the reader will still want to read each poem twice (almost all are short), they're immediate and easily accessible. Let me provide some background on The Pill Versus the Springhill Mine Disaster and break down the contents of this book. It contains 98 poems, of which 38 were previously unpublished and 60 were selected from five of his six earlier books. Those 60 poems are the two-part poem "The Return of the Rivers" from 1957; the nine-part poem "The Galilee Hitchhiker" from 1958; nine poems of the 24 contained in Lay the Marble Tea (1959); seventeen poems of the 22 contained in The Octopus Frontier (1960); and the 32 poems from All Watched Over By Machines of Loving Grace (1967). This collection doesn't include Please Plant this Book,  published in 1968, which consisted of eight poems printed on seed packets, four of flowers, four of vegetables. Brautigan went on to publish three more books of poetry, Rommel Drives on Deep into Egypt (1970), Loading Mercury with a Pitchfork (1976), and June 30th, June 30th (1978). Encompassing the first 12 years of his poetry, The Pill Versus the Springhill Mine Disaster is a perfect introduction to Richard Brautigan, and ends with this: "Spinning like a ghost/on the bottom of a/top,/I'm haunted by all/the space that I/will live without/you."  [4★]

Akhmatova Poems by Anna Akhmatova (1989)

A valuable collection of poetry covering the whole writing life by the great Russian poet, Anna Akhmatova (1889-1966).

Poetry Review: Akhmatova Poems is a perfect introduction to a poet too unfamiliar in the West. This Everyman's Library Pocket Poets edition, translated by D.M. Thomas, helps rectify the oversight of a writer who lost many creative years when her work was banned by the Stalin regime. Anna Akhmatova's writing reflects the course of modern Russian history. Known as a St. Petersburg poet, she lived and wrote from the time of the tsars until after the death of Stalin. She began as a leader of the Acmeists, a Russian movement that, similar to the Imagists, was devoted to simple, direct, clear and exact writing, opposed to the convolutions of the earlier Symbolists. Even her later writing is usually concise and pointed. Her work is known for its lyricism and her popular early poems told of love's sorrows: "How unbearably white/the blind on the white window." For her, love consisted of both passion and suffering, parting, leading to anger and then to loneliness and despair. "An autumn whisper between the maples/Kept urging 'die with me'." But pain could find some comfort in a confessional sort of religion, flesh balanced by spirit. "... a red maple leaf/marks the pages of the Song of Songs." A patriot in the truest sense of the word, she refused to emigrate despite her dissent from the Revolution, government disapproval (her works banned, her husband shot, her son sent to a labor camp), and the hardship of the Second World War. After publishing mostly lyrical love poetry from 1912 to 1922 she was unable to publish until 1940. She then wrote poems in solidarity with London and Paris. But the poems of this later period primarily reflected the country's pain and tragedy during the war (she was one of those besieged in Leningrad before being evacuated) in poems that were dark and despairing, but demonstrated her fervent love of country by promoting sacrifice and extolling the martyrs of the war. "We've all had to learn not to sleep for three years./In the morning we shall find out/Who has died in the night." Her earlier poems, however, led to Akhmatova being famously condemned as "a nun and a harlot" by a government official in 1946. After this attack, her work was again suppressed until 1958. "The glass doorbell rings/shrilly ... Is today really the date? ... Don't let it be me." In her final period she could examine the years and losses during the Stalinist era. Akhmatova reflected on the tragedies perpetrated by the government and Russian experience and history during her lifetime and 60-year writing career (beginning in 1907), as in her famous works Requiem, which addressed the sadness and suffering mixed with steadfast hope, but always outraged by the injustice of the Stalinist era; and A Poem Without a Hero, a historical epic of the times. There is a short but helpful "Notes" section at the end, yet for non-Russians there is so much we miss and don't understand. My one small complaint is that translating a foreign language into rhyme well seems impossible to me. Other than that, this volume has much to appreciate. There is almost too much; the palette is so broad the book requires rereading the rereading. The Everyman's Library edition is variously titled Akhmatova (on the cover), Akhmatova Poems (on the title page), and Anna Akhmatova Poems (on page 11). Whatever, it is a perfect gift and fits easily in any backpack or purse.  [5★]

The Coral Sea by Patti Smith (1996)

A remembrance in poetry of Robert Mapplethorpe.

Poetry Review: The Coral Sea is a collection of Patti Smith's writing about the memory of Robert Mapplethorpe who passed in 1989, at least up to that point in time (1996). I read the revised version published in 2012, which added more poems to the original edition. It consists of a preface to his book Flowers, a poem for his memorial, and a number of prose poems that tell "our story." The collection is well illustrated by both their photographs. As such, it's something of a prequel to her memoir Just Kids (2010), the story of their struggling young "ambitious artists" days in New York City. I'd suggest, however, to read it after if interested. Elegy seems to bring out the creator in Patti Smith. On her groundbreaking, combining punk with poetry, first album Horses (cover photo taken by Mapplethorpe) she included an "Elegie" for Jimi Hendrix. In her three memoirs she recollected Mapplethorpe (Just Kids), her husband Fred "Sonic" Smith (M Train, 2015) and Sam Shepard and Sandy Pearlman (Year of the Monkey, 2019). The Coral Sea is Smith's poetic remembrance, Just Kids is her memoir of the same. The latter is the stronger work, which led me to wonder if memoir is the natural outcome of what Smith calls "the dried-up-poet" syndrome. So much of poetry comes from an author's own life. If as one ages it becomes harder "to make it new," is not memoir, which also flows directly from one's own life not a natural avenue to channel those creative but now maybe less energetic impulses? I know of no poet to compare Smith with, from which she sprang. She is in love with images, she sees all, images and elements appear, vanish, then reappear in another poem, repeating words and images tightly interwoven throughout the book. The poems are visual, but she hears the sounds of her poems, every poem is capable of being read aloud. No, not just read aloud, declaimed, orated, spoken from a stage. Even sung, even danced. The whole is a metaphoric voyage, with people from their lives given new identities. She has a fearless poet's soul, is afraid of no combination of words, willing to write a "reign of tears" or "tiny arrows burning with the seductive poison of love" or "only Cupid in mischievous sleep could muster. And only M in cruel awakening could master." Many poets are far too cool to write those words, but Smith's poetry is fiery, rich, not cool. One line is "No one could enter a soul composed of tears, for one would surely drown." To me those words succeed and fail on several levels. Some favorites are "After Thoughts" and "The Herculean Moth." From these poems I get less a sense of who Robert Mapplethorpe was than who Patti Smith thought he was or what he was to her, for she seems to inhabit his skin in these lines, at times it's unclear where Smith begins or Mapplethorpe ends. She writes of him warts and all, confident that he transcends earthly flaws, traits, and peccadilloes. For her they both needed and collected amulets, tokens, talismans, touchstones, relics and ritual, objects with meaning, myth, and magic. Everything is visceral, tactile, texture. She runs more to emotion, but there is food for the intellect here also. In the final analysis the poems in The Coral Sea are heartfelt, honest in their fanciful way, with a meaning that Smith understands more than anyone. There are many personal and opaque references. For instance in the last line of the book she writes "commending these same wings beneath the folding arms of the deaconess of his soul"; Mapplethorpe died in Deaconess Hospital. For what is infinitely intimate to her, she gently and generously allows us to see through the door she's opened.  [3½★]

Rommel Drives on Deep into Egypt by Richard Brautigan (1970)

The eighth book of poetry by the American Sixties counter-culture  writer.

Poetry Review: Rommel Drives on Deep into Egypt is an idiosyncratic book of short poems, all written in a gentle, pointed, sarcastic, or wondering tone. Richard Brautigan (1935-1984) is a poet and novelist I've long heard of but never read, and he writes in an astonishing variety of genres. Here there are surreal poems (which reminded me of Sixties poet, Bill Knott): "He's howling in the pines/at the edge of your fingertips." Love poems: "and then to lie silently like deer tracks/in the freshly-fallen snow beside the one/you love. That's all." What would someday come to be known as tumblr poetry: "Do you think of me/as often as I think/of you?" Hippie poems: "There is a motorcycle/in New Mexico." Poems of childhood: "My teachers could easily have ridden with Jesse James for all the time they stole from me." He can venture back to the Eighth Century to echo Chinese poet Li Po: "Drinking wine this afternoon/I realize the days are getting longer." Brautigan's flaws include a Sixties love of sometimes using word choice simply to shock, and occasionally violating Lawrence Ferlinghetti's dictum (as do virtually all tumblr poets): "don't think quirks of thought are poetry." Although not all these poems are gems, there are still so many successes so quickly read that the joy rarely wavers. Personally, I love short poems -- for me a long poem might as well be prose. The point of a poem is to be brief, targeted, rapier. An epiphany, a revelation, a crystalline moment imprismed. And Brautigan delivers. Although I think he's lost much of his fame since the Sixties, the poems in Rommel Drives on Deep into Egypt are more than just a time capsule. Some of them are quite daring, breaking with what would've been acceptable in those days, as did beat poets such as Gregory Corso or Peter Orlovsky: "I feel so bad today/that I want to write a poem./I don't care: any poem, this/poem." Brautigan also embodies that all too rarely found role of the poet as mystic, seer, prophet, channeler of the zeitgeist. But don't let that discourage the reader: he can be plain spoken as a shovel. For those intimidated by poetry, who feel it may be too deep, difficult, or daunting, Rommel Drives on Deep into Egypt is the book to change your mind.  [4★]

Laugh at the End of the World by Bill Knott (2000)

A selection of the late Bill Knott's "comic" poems.

Poetry Review: Laugh at the End of the World is subtitled Collected Comic Poems 1969 - 1999, which beyond wondering if this book was timed to come at the end of the millennium when the world was to end, is also "comic" in the sense that these are not necessarily funny poems. Some are surreal, some are absurd, and many aren't really humorous at all, except in the darkest possible way. Since finding Bill Knott is such a rare event I appreciate any collection of his work, even when subject to a misnomer. But buyer beware if going into this expecting LOLs. A wry grimace is more likely. First, the longer a Knott poem the less likely it's going to be a clear winner. He was best when writing short. This selection contains many longer pieces. Second, he's a marmite poet anyway. Readers are as likely to be baffled, angered, or disgusted by his poems as to enjoy, appreciate, or laugh at them. So why suggest he's the next Robin Williams? Finally, if looking for a better or more representative collection (for Knott fans only), then perhaps seek out I Am Flying Into Myself: Selected Poems, 1960-2014, edited by Thomas Lux. All the best poems from Laugh at the End of the World are in that one. Don't get me wrong, if your library has this or you run across it in a used-book shop and the price is right, by all means grab it. You're getting a real taste of the bizarrely enigmatic Bill Knott. Whether he's your cup of tea is a different question. He can be bitter, angry, childish petulant, cutting, surreal, and occasionally on his best behavior. Just don't expect Laugh at the End of the World to have you rolling on the floor laughing your arse off. But if you're on the right wavelength it may make you nod knowingly ... .  [3½★]

The Body's Question by Tracy K. Smith (2003)

The first book of poems by the Poet Laureate of the United States.

Poetry Review: The Body's Question is an amazing first book, and reassuring in that contemporary American poets are still writing poetry this wonderful. Tracy K. Smith creates within the great tradition of lyric poetry, yet her poems are fresh, individual, and contemporary (yet retro enough to capitalize every line). Too many poets today write poetry so opaque that it couldn't be deciphered by a CIA analyst. Or write poems so accessible there's little substance or meaning, like shower thoughts, like tumblr poetry. Smith writes real poetry (sorry, but true). She's a Romantic. Her poems can be timeless ("A Hunger So Honed") or as immediate and pointed as breaking news: "That's why women/Wear worry and cover their heads, let their words/Drop like shot birds from the higher windows./Every night here one of us is sliced open."

At heart, Smith describes a young woman seeing and enjoying what life has to offer, with her memories never too far from the surface. She has wonderful lines: "I woke, touching ground gently/Like a parachutist tangled in low branches." or "Lying beside you was like/Dangling a leg/Over the edge/Of a drifting boat." or "I have always been this beautiful/and this dead." Appropriately, the book begins with a "Serenade" and ends with a "Prayer." The word "hunger" is a drumbeat throughout the pages, covering everything from desire to ambition to need. The Body's Question includes love poems (many), memory poems, travel poems, confessional poems. The ghosts of the Spanish poets drift through. There's metaphor if you like that, but if you don't you can just kick back and enjoy the pyrotechnic imagery. The amount of work that went into these poems is astonishing. She constructs brilliant first and last lines, and then fills the in-between with revelatory pictures. It's not just that Smith is talented, clever and intelligent, but she knows, she knows what she's doing:

   Success must hurt. Must yield sharp evidence.
   I'll have to lie to get it.
                                              Like love.

Don't let Kevin Young's introduction turn you off, if it does; poets writing about poets can be something of a swamp (I'm currently reading his new books, Brown). If you want an excellent example of the best of contemporary poetry, The Body's Question is it.  [4★]

Poet in Spain by Federico Garcia Lorca (2017)

A new selection in English of works by one of Spain's greatest poets.

Poetry Review: Poet in Spain is a new translation (by Sarah Arvio) of a variety of works by my favorite poet, Federico Garcia Lorca. She includes a section ("Poems") containing a large, personal selection of poems from various of Lorca's works; a generous selection from Poem of the Deep Song (Poema del cante jondo); all of the Gypsy Ballads (Primero romancero gitano); the Divan of the Tamarit (Divan del Tamarit); the Lament for Ignacio Sanchez Mejias (Llanto por Ignacio Sanchez Mejias); the Sonnets of Dark Love (Sonetos del amor oscuro); and a play, Blood Wedding (Bodas de sangre). This roster includes work from most of Lorca's career (the translator chose not to include poems from his Poet in New York as not being as "Spanish" as the poems she selected, in conformance with the volume's title).

Any collection of Lorca's work is worth reading. What's unique about Poet in Spain is the creative effort taken by the translator, Sarah Arvio, herself a published poet. Arvio has chosen to have Lorca's work conform to her artistic vision. A representative example is a short section (cited by Arvio herself) from the long poem Lament for Igancio Sanchez Mejias. Here Lorca expresses his horror even at the mere time of his friend's death:

Lorca's Original:

A las cinco de la tarde.
Ay que terribles cinco de la tarde!
Eran las cinco en todos los relojes!
Eran las cinco en sombra de la tarde!

Literal translation:

At five in the afternoon.
Ay that terrible five in the afternoon!
It was five on all the clocks!
It was five in the afternoon shade!

Arvio's translation:

At five o'clock
Ay what terrible fives
it was five on all the clocks
In the afternoon shadows

All translators make choices. Even for those who don't read Spanish, it's clear that Arvio has chosen to dispense with Lorca's punctuation. She also removes his variations on the refrain "five in the afternoon" (cinco de la tarde). Arvio's version seems more modern, cleaner perhaps, certainly more concise. But for me there's a loss. First, is simply the accurate representation of Lorca's creation. But second is the rhythm, the drumbeat, the repetition that emphasizes the poet's horror, the music of Lorca's words. Mejias was a matador, which influences both the importance of the time and my translation of sombra as "shade" instead of "shadow" (both are literally correct).

Arvio herself states of her translations: "I've used almost no punctuation; this was my style of composition." (Lorca's punctuation could be quite lively.) "I didn't imitate or replicate Lorca's prosodic strategies directly. I tried to reflect the poems -- to catch their essence."

Readers may appreciate Arvio's interpretations of Lorca's poetry and a more contemporary accessibility. If they buy this book, however, they should do so aware that at times these translations may not closely reflect Lorca's words and so (arguably) may not capture his meaning. This may not be the volume to cite when quoting Lorca in an academic paper. Many translators attempt to remain invisible, to create as little distance as possible between the words of the poet and the reader. Here Sarah Arvio makes herself visible as a poet. As such, some of these poems are more variations or "imitations" (as Robert Lowell called them). Although Arvio's style of translation is not the same as mine, Poet in Spain is clearly a labor of love, taking the time to translate a number of Lorca's poems, in fact complete books, including hard to find works. I'm happy to own it. For those interested in translations closer to Lorca's own creations, large editions of both Lorca's Selected Verse and Collected Poems are available in English from Farrar, Straus and Giroux. Additionally, both Oxford University Press and New Directions have excellent (smaller, cheaper) editions of Lorca's Selected Poems (either fits well in a backpack, purse, rucksack, or book bag). Every translator makes choices and can be second-guessed to death. Poet in Spain is a welcome addition to the debate.  [3½★]

They Feed They Lion by Philip Levine (1972)

The fifth book of poetry by working class poet Philip Levine, U.S. Poet Laureate, Pulitzer Prize winner, National Book Award winner.

Poetry Review: They Feed They Lion is a powerful and passionate book of poetry, and contains Phil Levine's best poem. That poem is the title poem, written in light of the 1968 riots in his home town of Detroit. To a relentless beat "They Feed The Lion" speaks of the oppressed, the raging, the dispossessed, the beaten, and in just five verses says all that needs to be said about all those populations. The thing to do here would be to quote the entire poem, or for you to find it on the internet and read it -- read it aloud -- or find Levine himself reading it on YouTube. But I'll just quote some bits here:

   Out of burlap sacks ...
   Out of the acids of rage ...
   They Lion grow.

   Of industrial barns, out of rain, out of bus ride ...
   Mothers hardening like pounded stumps ...
 
   From "Bow Down" come "Rise Up," ...
   The grained arm that pulls the hands ...
   They Lion grow.

A poem still contemporary today, that addresses issues as specific as the BLM movement to the widespread anger in every industrial city of America.

They Feed They Lion also contains my favorite Levine poem, "Salami." The poem begins with the vivid description of an old Spanish woman making salami at her kitchen table:

   And if a tooth of stink thistle
   pulls blood from the round
   blue marbled hand
   all the better ...

The poem goes on to describe a Spanish stone cutter asking the Virgin for blessings, and his grown but childlike daughter, "lost in the wind, or lost/ in the mind." The poem ends with the poet, with his own terrors and his own small son's breaths

  going and coming, and each
  bore its prayer for me,
  the true and earthy prayer
  of salami.

I don't know how any poet could find so much story to tell, and so much philosophy to unravel, in such a humble poem and such a humble subject.

This is just a taste of They Feed They Lion. There are other great poems such as "Coming Home," one of Levine's series of Angel poems "Angel Butcher," "Breath," "Detroit Grease Shop Poem." The poems in this book cover Levine's usual subjects: work, memory, Detroit, workers, family. He was never a star, he didn't get publicity, demand attention, act eccentric; he just worked hard and kept on working, teaching many grateful students along the way. A blue collar poet. This may be Levine's best book, or maybe not, but it certainly contains some of his best poems. If you haven't read the poems in They Feed They Lion, you haven't read what you need to read by Philip Levine. [5★]

Deja Everything by Adam Hammer (1978)

The only full-length book published by American surrealist poet Adam Hammer (1948-1984).

Poetry Review: Deja Everything is surrealism with a devious sense of humor, a sneaky sense of meaning, and a subtle heart. This small book is dedicated to Willie Mays, if that tells you anything, and it's almost impossible to find. There weren't that many printed in the first place, and doubtless the vast majority of the copies of this little 68-page paperback were lost. Or its owners love the book so much they'll never part with it; like me. Hammer has his own unique voice, but was influenced by poets such as Bill Knott and Thomas Lux (who edited Knott's recently released, posthumous Selected Poems on FSG). Seeing the ghost of Bill Knott (who outlived Hammer) peek out from one of Hammer's poems is like seeing two old friends sharing a bottle of lube oil. These days it would probably be craft lube oil. Here's a short poem entitled "History of Love": "I love springtime! you cried/ and it was wonderful indeed/ the bees were playing their little guitars ...". But Hammer (also known as Juan Carlos) doesn't write just any sort of surrealism, Deja Everything contains surrealism that provides its own meaning, like an Impressionist painting that hints at its foggy subject. As he wrote: "I wonder if it's possible/ to write a poem that is perfectly clear/ After all, poetry is a sort of mist/ No one really understands the way his work is ignored." There is also feeling, genuine feeling here, without (much) irony, so the reader knows there's a person, not a PC, behind these poems. A funny, angry, lost, naively smart, bitter, baseball-loving person. These poems also reveal a mind with a pinball-like vocabulary and the ability to elicit laughter from nowhere. Surrealists must wander the streets with a black leaf bag looking for that one right, but almost never connected, word for their next masterpiece. Hammer writes: "Politely does stained glass appear: ... O Lobster who is currently enjoying stained glass!" But why am I writing about a lost poet who died young in a country of forgotten, lost, dead poets. A poet who wrote one book on a small press with a limited press run? Who once edited the literary journal Gumbo with Yusef Komunyakaa, who lived to became everything that Hammer didn't. Every year hundreds or thousands of small books of poetry are published, doomed to be read (at most) by the poet's friends, family, and nearby poets. Most are fanatically mediocre, and virtually all will be quickly forgotten. But Deja Everything was a good book. Because sometimes a situation absolutely requires a really futile and stupid gesture be done on somebody's part. And I'm that somebody. Moments of brilliance should not be lost. As Hammer says, "The world is always ready for a new way of ignoring contemporary poetry." Books of poetry are lost everyday, and some, a few, shouldn't be. And this is my moment, of remembering a brilliant moment. [5★]

Terrapin by Wendell Berry (2014)

A collection of wonderfully illustrated poems that children might like to read.

Poetry Review: Terrapin is a lovely collection of farmer/poet Wendell Berry's work, that illustrator Tom Pohrt thought that children might appreciate. The book contains 21 of Berry's simpler and shorter poems, but they have their own mysteries and can be well appreciated by adults, as well. Personally, I loved this book for its charming simplicity, and even by an adult it can be read over and over again for both the subtleties and the warm messages of the poems. No, this is not slam poetry, it's not edgy or dark, not hipster cool or ironic. The poems are un-ironic and sincere, a sincerity that you can read and love in the privacy of your own bedroom. Go ahead, be daring, read as a child, with a child's eyes, and heart, as you did when you were a child. Be that better you from long ago. Here is one:

   The first man who whistled
   thought he had a wren in his mouth.
   He went around all day
   with his lips puckered,
   afraid to swallow.

The poems are heavy on nature, animals, and life on Berry's farm. There are poems about horses, snakes, squirrels, a calf, and finches; poems about planting trees, the seasons, and sleep. And then there is the title poem, which I think (surprise!) is the most wonderful of all the poems in Terrapin. Childlike, not childish, and any child would love it. The illustrations are all well worth examining for their own sake. The pictures are warm, sweet, adorable, and maybe one or two are even a little cheesy, in a good way, like a good friend who tells bad jokes. It's hard to tell if the paintings illustrate the poems or the poems capture the pictures. This book would be a perfect gift (hardback or paperback) for any occasion. Perfect for a young child who likes to be read to, or an older child who has started to read. Or, as with me, an adult of any age. I don't know if children will understand all the poems in Terrapin, or even all the words, but it will be wonderful for them to try. [4★]

I Am Flying Into Myself: Selected Poems 1960-2014 by Bill Knott (2017)

The first, and perhaps the last, collection of Bill Knott's poems published since his death in 2014.

Poetry Review: I Am Flying Into Myself is a selection of work by a little-known poet in a culture of little-known poets. Not only little-known, but thorny, uncooperative, curmudgeonly, and a writer who went through immense changes in his writing, from the almost epigrammatic poetry of his early books, through surrealism (or Aurealism as he called it), to the complex, thorny, intellectual, syllabic, more formal poetry of his later years, but always with his own odd and individual sense of humor. As the editor Thomas Lux notes, Bill Knott was "a school of one, among the American poets." Lux notes that he edited this collection of 152 poems from Knott's own collection of 964 poems, and states that he generally adhered to Knott's order, which was "meant to be random, neither chronological nor thematic." This books lists Knott's 12 books, which through haunting thrift stores I've managed to collect seven and read eight.The existence of I Am Flying Into Myself is a wonderful thing in and of itself, it makes me happy just to know I can hold it in my hands. It's interesting to note which poems Lux chose from so many choices: many sonnets, many formal works, so much of his wordplay, puns, games, neologisms, and the magic Knott found in words. At his best Knott works in elements of Joyce, Shakespeare, perhaps even some Dylan Thomas. I believe these are the poems Knott himself would have wanted preserved. As grateful as I am to Lux for shepherding this project, these poems are not always the ones I would have chosen. For me there are too few from the early books on which Knott, to his later regret, made his reputation. He never quite lived down his image as the angry, young, anti-war poet. Though I treasure all his work, for me the work in this collection is not as immediate, emotional, political, powerful as those early efforts. My only other wish is that there were even more poems in the collection (there's room). Here is one from the book, called "Goodbye": "If you are still alive when you read this,/close your eyes. I am/under their lids, growing black." And if Bill Knott was still with us and could see this collection, I think he would say something dismissive, about "sure, after I'm dead, what good does this do me?" But I also think he would be secretly pleased, quite pleased, and would eagerly and approvingly look through the pages, and would be just as happy (though he wouldn't admit it) that it's from a prestigious publisher like Farrar Straus Giroux. I Am Flying Into Myself is a good thing; look for it in your local bookstore or library. [4½★]

What Work Is by Philip Levine (1991)

The National Book Award winning poetry collection by American author Philip Levine.

Poetry Review: What Work Is surprises even with its title, not one expected on a poetry collection, even as the poignant cover photograph reminds us that "work begins at seven" once referred to age rather than the clock. The 25 poems in this book (one 18 pages long) are relentlessly good, as usual displaying Levine's immense craftsmanship and almost perfect mastery over his field. To learn to write poetry, just read these poems, over and over. Since he writes so often about work, workers, the working life, I had somehow expected the entire volume to be devoted to that one subject, and it's not. Instead, What Work Is contains Levine's usual subjects of family, memory, Detroit, California, other cultures, and people's stories. Unlike all Gaul, the book is divided into four parts, with the first focusing on the dehumanizing nature and necessity of work. In one poem he writes: "she has been/standing before a polishing wheel/for over three hours, and she lacks/twenty minutes before she can take/a lunch break. Is she a woman?" "Coming Close," "Among Children," and the title poem are standouts of this section. The second part addresses memories, family, places, nature. One line is "a broken fence/that mumbles Keep Out." One of the strongest poems in the book, "M. Degas Teaches Art & Science ..." is here, evoking the fears of childhood, school, and future. Part three is the 18 page poem "Burned," which I can't do justice and must be read to be appreciated: it's a long journey covering much terrain. Finally, part four looks at memories from all parts of Levine's life interwoven, childhood, school, teachers, and friends : "In the dark you can love this place." The most powerful poem in the book, one that bears repeated reading, is "The Sweetness of Bobby Hefka," with a voice that perhaps speaks louder today than when it was written. What Work Is doesn't have the individual searing standout poems of earlier books, but it's overall quality is certainly higher, as written by a cobbler who can't turn out a bad shoe. [4★]

The Last Shift: Poems by Philip Levine (2016)

The final collection of poems selected by Philip Levine (1928-2015), National Book Award and Pulitzer Prize winner, and the former Poet Laureate of the United States.

Poetry Review: The Last Shift may not be Philip Levine's strongest collection of poems, but it is a representative one, sampling topics from all areas of his life and thoughts. Something like a "Best of" record, he returns to moments reminiscent of a number of his previous works. The Last Shift is not only the title of the fine final poem of the collection, but an appropriate title for the final book by this proud poet of the working class. One of his collections was titled What Work Is (winner of the 1991 National Book Award), not a topic often addressed by American poets. One of the striking attributes of this book, a useful primer for all learning poets, is just what a fine craftsman Levine is, how well these poems are written, how well put together, how well he expresses his thoughts. Anyone could learn much from the poems in this book, how to construct a poem, how to choose the right words, how to say enough without saying too much ("each in her best flowered dress,/each with her worn Bible in hand"). And then there are the subjects and the language in The Last Shift. Levine writes of things that are used, are worn, that are touched and felt: "armies of picks/and shovels, their handles/stained with our fathers' lives." He ends that poem with simple beauty:

   All that's left
   are these few unread words
   without rhythm or breath
   fading before your eyes.

At times he touches on the Spanish poets and the Biblical (Psalm 137):

   By the waters of the Llobregat
   no one sits down to weep for the children

   of the world, by the Ebro, the Tagus,
   the Guadalquivir, by the waters
   of the world no one sits down and weeps.

The Last Shift is a book of history, of memories, memories of his youth in Detroit, labor, women, work, angels, family, travel.

   A lifetime passes
   in the blink of an eye. You look back and think,
   That was heaven, so of course it had to end.

Or even,

   Oh
   to be young and strong and dumb
   again in Michigan!

Perhaps Levine's whole life is wrapped up in the pages of The Last Shift, he selected these poems, showing his skill and his dreams, and in these pages you can find all the poems he ever wrote, just in other words. He's written his own elegy. [3½★] 🐢