The Classics Circuit: Alexander Pushkin

Eugene Onegin
Alexander Pushkin

Poor Pushkin has long suffered the fate of an impulsive buy.

A few years ago, I purchased Eugene Onegin knowing only it was Russian lit, which I needed to read more of beyond Dostoevsky. I arrived home and cracked open my purchase only to find a novel in verse!

[Insert party-stopping record scratch here]

Say what?

And so, poor Pushkin has sat unread on my shelf for many a year now. Thankfully, this latest installment of the Classics Circuit has given me the kick in the butt I needed to conquer this thing.

I'll say this: Eugene Onegin is not what you'd call a summer read. I wouldn't go so far as to say it's a difficult read, but it's definitely not an easy one. The translation (by Charles Johnston) makes for smooth enough reading, but our narrator digresses, rambles, philosophizes...oh boy. But I pressed on, ever the loyal CC participant.

The story is simple enough: Onegin is rich and bored with life. He flits from party to party -- oh, the emptiness of his life. Then, his uncle dies and Onegin inherits his house in the county. Alas! The country is just as boring as the city! So, he spends his days TORTUROUSLY: reading, walking by the river, and hanging out with his new friend, Lensky. In other words, his life totally sucks. (At least he doesn't he doesn't assault a remote, though.)

Eugene Onegin: first on the emo scene

Anyway, Lensky is head over heels in love with Olga. Fast forward a bit, and Olga's older sister, Tatyana, soon falls in love with the undeserving Onegin.

Tanya's in love with Onegin, Onegin's in love with Onegin -- this won't end well. And why should it? Onegin is utterly unsympathetic. It's a bit problematic to have a condescending, pompous prick as the work's hero -- I couldn't muster up a bit of feeling for him.

Ultimately, this work left me cold due to the unlikability of the "hero" and the narrator's numerous digressions. (Tatyana's pretty badass, though.) The action was drawn out, so I found myself skimming much more than I should probably admit. That said, Pushkin's achievement is undeniable: at nearly 400 stanzas and featuring an innovative rhyme scheme (a.k.a. the Onegin stanza), Eugene Onegin is no paltry accomplishment.

In a nutshell: Onegin may be a turd, but Pushkin is okay in my book.

Bibliolatry Scale: 4 out of 6 stars

FTCBS: Personal copy

You give, and you are given

Evidence
Mary Oliver

I have to thank both Beacon Press and LibraryThing's Early Reviewers Program for sending me Evidence, Mary Oliver's latest collection of poetry. I love Oliver's work and this newest collection does not disappoint.

I'm pleased to say that, while not every poem hit home, I enjoyed the majority of poems in the collection, and a few had such an impact on me that I was utterly unable to continue reading -- all I could do was to reread the lines which had affected me so. This happened a number of times, which is always a hallmark of a superior poet.

Oliver's poetry is simple and unpretentious; that's not to say, however, that it's facile or simple-minded. I love how she glories in the world around her, and finds beauty in every aspect of nature.

This ability is most clearly seen in "Prince Buzzard," one of my favorite poems in the collection. Here, Oliver is able to make beautiful that which is generally considered to be ugly: a buzzard feeding on carrion. Although this image is not a pleasant one, the poem that results from it is.

"Almost a Conversation" is another of my favorites; in this poem Oliver describes a conversation with an otter. I had quoted a portion of the poem in a previous draft of this review; upon rereading it, however, the power of those lines is not as strong as when attached to the entire poem, so you'll just have to trust me on this one.

At any rate, if you enjoy poetry characterized by simple phrasing, profound thoughts, and a glorification of the natural world, Evidence is for you.

In a nutshell: Oliver uses simple language to create profound poetry.

Bibliolatry Scale: 5 out of 6 stars

A mind of winter

I recently subscribed to The New-York Ghost, a free newsletter that, every once in awhile, arrives via email. The most recent offering contained a poem by Aimee Kelley that I couldn't help but save and reread again and again. I post it here, which is hopefully not a violation of some sort.

At any rate, if you like what you see, you can subscribe (it's free) to The New-York Ghost by sending an email to newyorkghostATgmailDOTcom.



Dick Cheney’s home is only visible
in winter. Those months he sits
underground dreaming

of camouflage, tree leaves, and heavy
boughs. He weeps, stain on his pocket
square. Upstairs his wife

plays piano, completes paint by
numbers, one after another, each brighter
than the last. She neglects

the housekeeping, waves over her
tea at tourists outside in this, her favorite
season. Below, he wanders

by flashlight, running a finger across
lids of preserves, opening orange, never
strawberry. Sitting on water

drums, potable, he eats astronaut
ice cream, testing how slowly he
can chew. He hears snow

falling on his driveway and melting
in a moment. To have a mind of winter,
he thinks. A breach.

—Aimee Kelley

Poetry is an orphan of silence

Congratulations are due to Kay Ryan, who has just been named Poet Laureate. (She replaces Charles Simic, whose words form the title to this post.)

Her entry page on Poets.org provides an interesting description of her work by J.D. McClatchy, who described her poems as "compact, exhilarating, strange affairs, like Erik Satie miniatures or Joseph Cornell boxes. She is an anomaly in today's literary culture: as intense and elliptical as Dickinson, as buoyant and rueful as Frost."

Ever the modern gal, I like that her poems are short and deceptively easy to read. Here's a couple selections courtesy of Poets.org, which provides other selections as well, in case you're interested in reading more by her.

NOTHING VENTURED
by Kay Ryan

Nothing exists as a block
and cannot be parceled up.
So if nothing's ventured
it's not just talk;
it's the big wager.
Don't you wonder
how people think
the banks of space
and time don't matter?
How they'll drain
the big tanks down to
slime and salamanders
and want thanks?



PATIENCE
by Kay Ryan

Patience is
wider than one
once envisioned,
with ribbons
of rivers
and distant
ranges and
tasks undertaken
and finished
with modest
relish by
natives in their
native dress.
Who would
have guessed
it possible
that waiting
is sustainable—
a place with
its own harvests.
Or that in
time's fullness
the diamonds
of patience
couldn't be
distinguished
from the genuine
in brilliance
or hardness.

Baptized, reborn, in the arms of a boy

Neurotica, by Elva Maxine Beach

Elva Maxine Beach’s Neurotica isn’t like anything I’ve ever read before. True, it features male-female dynamics as well as a thoughtful exploration of issues like power and control, but Beach explores these themes differently than most other authors do.

As indicated by the title, Neurotica blends both the psychological and the erotic. In fact, as Beach explains on her website, “My work isn’t necessarily erotica… It’s raw, yes, and there’s lots of fucking and sucking, but my work delves into the psyche. It’s psyche-sexual drama.”

Neurotica is not for the faint of heart, but for those who aren't scared off by the prospect of some "fucking and sucking," you'll find Neurotica to be a well-written, thought-provoking collection of poetry and short fiction. Beach, who currently “teaches writing, professes pleasure, and encourages mindful hedonism” (I am so down with this!) earned an MFA at Louisiana State University, where a friend advised her to write erotica.

The strongest pieces in Neurotica are the short stories (especially, "Can I Get a Hallelujah?" which you can read here), which chronicle the narrator's sexual progression, from awakening to liberation. No matter where one is along the narrator's path, her story is unsettling, disturbing, unconventional -- and utterly compelling. At times, my hand crept to my mouth (the Catholic school girl in me blushed a deep shade of red several times), but never could I look away, and I found my mind returning to Neurotica long after I had finished it.

In a nutshell: Erotica with a social conscience, Neurotica explores the power one person can have over another -- but it also explores the power found in powerlessness.

Bibliolatry Scale: 5 out of 6 stars

Special Announcement: A book release party will be held on June 28 in Austin, Texas. If you act soon, the hardcover version of the book will be shipped free to anywhere in North America, but this offer is good only through the 28th of June.

Apt

MAY DAY
by Phillis Levin

I've decided to waste my life again,
Like I used to: get drunk on
The light in the leaves, find a wall
Against which something can happen,

Whatever may have happened
Long ago—let a bullet hole echoing
The will of an executioner, a crevice
In which a love note was hidden,

Be a cell where a struggling tendril
Utters a few spare syllables at dawn.
I've decided to waste my life
In a new way, to forget whoever

Touched a hair on my head, because
It doesn't matter what came to pass,
Only that it passed, because we repeat
Ourselves, we repeat ourselves.

I've decided to walk a long way
Out of the way, to allow something
Dreaded to waken for no good reason,
Let it go without saying,

Let it go as it will to the place
It will go without saying: a wall
Against which a body was pressed
For no good reason, other than this.

I like to think I'll find you again

Cake
Doreen Fitzgerald

When you reference one of my favorite foods in your title, I'm immediately impressed. So I began Cake, a collection of selected poems by Doreen Fitzgerald, with a favorable outlook.

Cake's poems are short, mostly all a single page. The shortest is the title piece, which reads They say you can't / have it / and eat it too, / but then, / while you're chewing, / it's all yours.

Despite the playful tone of "Cake" most of the other pieces are more serious in nature, especially when Fitzgerald writes of her past. Those with a nostalgic feel are among the most powerful, as well as those which discussed nature. (The title of this post, by the way, comes from one of my favorites entitled "From the Far Side.")

My only criticism is that quite a few poems had an unfinished feel to them, which prevented me from connecting with them on a deeper level. Even though Cake would benefit from another round of editing, the ideas presented in it are solid.

In a nutshell: A bit uneven but there are several gems to be found.

Bibliolatry Scale: 3.5 out of 6 stars

National Poetry Month

In honor of April being National Poetry Month, I signed up for a poem-a-day via Poets.org. Each morning a new poem has arrived in my inbox - not a bad way to begin the day! Go here to sign up for yourself.

Admittedly, not everything I've received thus far has tickled my "awe bone," and many poems receive a cursory read before being deleted. The following poems, however, I just can't bring myself to delete.

I hope you enjoy them.

"Alpha Zulu", by Gary Lilley

"Just", by Alan Shapiro

Do you read a poem a day?

180 More: Extraordinary Poems for Every Day
edited by Billy Collins

I've been dreading writing this review (even though I should have done so months ago) because I simply have nothing to say about this collection.

I loved it and thoroughly recommend it, but there is absolutely nothing to say about it, other than it's a must-read for poetry fans. But that's not really interesting.

To explain, 180 More is a collection of contemporary poetry edited by Billy Collins, American Poet Larueate from 2001-2003. A prime goal of his is to teach high-school students to love poetry, an aim of mine as well. To that end, Collins edited this collection (as well as its predecessor, which I will review later) so that students could read (and, more importantly, enjoy) a poem a day. As a high-school English teacher myself, I know this aim is admirable but often easier said than done. However anyone, student or not, will find something to love in this collection.

This collection helps achieve Collins goal by including poetry that is both "simple" (although such a word is misleading) and powerful. Furthermore, this is poetry that does not need scanning, counting, and dissecting. Such activities are not what poetry lovers do when they sit down to read poetry -- it's what they do when they show off.

However, don't believe that 180 More features only facile contemporary poetry that contributes to the mediocrity of thought and dumbing-down of education that is so frequently seen today. This collection provides both simplicity and depth -- a refreshing change for students (and non-students alike) who equate poetry with painful over-analysis. The poetry here is not overly difficult to read (at least at a surface level), but it frequently provides great insight, especially upon further reading.

In a nutshell: Everyone will find something to love here. A must for poetry lovers, and an even greater must for those looking to get more involved in contemporary poetry.

Bibliolatry Scale: 5 out of 6 stars

My life, my portion of eternity

The Voice at 3:00 A.M.: Selected Late and New Poems
Charles Simic

After hearing Charles Simic named as Poet Laureate, I just had knew I needed to get my hands on his poetry. The small taste I had earlier gleaned did not whet my appetite. I searched online: I hemmed, I hawed, I debated which volume to purchase.

At long last, I settled upon The Voice at 3:00 A.M., a collection of late and new poems ranging from 1986 to the present day. As usual, I sat down to read this collection with my usual stack of post-its, a must whenever reading a book of poetry so that I may flag every poem I like. I am pleased to report that I nearly used them all when reading this collection of Simic’s work. While not every poem resounded with me, I can honestly say his work quite often took my breath away.

For my part, I like poems that appear simple (and are easy to read) yet yield multiple interpretations after some reflection. Most of Simic’s poems meet my criteria, and there are only a few poems that were so long I lost interest in them. Most were about a page in length, and nearly all made me stop and think. Choosing a favorite poem from this collection is damn near impossible, although I seem to have enjoyed the earlier poems in this collection better than the ones from the present.

I could speak more about this volume, but I think I had best allow his poetry to speak for him.

Consider the shortest poem in the collection, entitled “Evening Chess” (1992):

EVENING CHESS

The Black Queen raised high
In my father’s angry hand.


That's it! I just think it's brilliant, and I can't put my finger on why. This next one, from the present day, astounded me with its simple beauty, and I enjoy it more and more with every read:

NEAREST NAMELESS

So damn familiar,
Most of the time,
I don’t even know you are here.
My life,
My portion of eternity,

A little shiver,
As if the chill of the grave
Is already
Catching up with me—
No matter.

Descartes smelled
Witches burning
While he sat thinking
Of a truth so obvious
We keep failing to see it.

I never knew it either
Till today.
When I heard a bird shriek:
The cat is coming,
And I felt myself tremble.


I love that, "my life, my portion of eternity." I'm a little confuzzled as to Decartes' truth, though; is it no more than "I think, therefore I am"? Is that the truth we keep failing to see, that we are? I'd like to hear your thoughts on this.

In a nutshell: A necessity for poetry lovers, Simic’s work will not disappoint.

Bibliolatry Scale: 5 out of 6 stars

Five by Charles Simic

In honor of Charles Simic being named as Poet Laureate, I thought since I won't have a review today I'd instead post a few poems of his.

Oh, and this is totally friggin awesome.

Enjoy.

The Bather

Where the path to the lake twists out of sight,
A puff of dust, the kind bare feet make running,
Is what I saw in the dying light,
Night swooping down everywhere else.

A low branch heavy with leaves
Swaying momentarily where the shade
Lay thickest, some late bather
Disrobing right there for a quick dip--

(Or my solitude playing a trick on me?)
Pinned hair coming undone, soon to float
As she turns on her back, letting
The dozy current take her as it wishes

Beyond the last drooping branch
To where the sky opens
Black as the water under her white arms,
In the deepening night, deepening hush,

The treetops like charred paper edges,
Even the insects oddly reclusive
While I strained to hear a splash,
Or glimpse her running back to her clothes . . .

And when I did not; I just sat there.
The rare rush of wind in the leaves
Still fooling me now and then,
Until the chill made me go in.



Country Fair

for Hayden Carruth

If you didn't see the six-legged dog,
It doesn't matter.
We did, and he mostly lay in the corner.
As for the extra legs,

One got used to them quickly
And thought of other things.
Like, what a cold, dark night
To be out at the fair.

Then the keeper threw a stick
And the dog went after it
On four legs, the other two flapping behind,
Which made one girl shriek with laughter.

She was drunk and so was the man
Who kept kissing her neck.
The dog got the stick and looked back at us.
And that was the whole show.



Private Eye

To find clues where there are none,
That's my job now, I said to the
Dictionary on my desk. The world beyond
My window has grown illegible,
And so has the clock on the wall.
I may strike a match to orient myself

In the meantime, there's the heart
Stopping hush as the building
Empties, the elevators stop running,
The grains of dust stay put.
Hours of quiescent sleuthing
Before the Madonna with the mop

Shuffles down the long corridor
Trying doorknobs, turning mine.
That's just little old me sweating
In the customer's chair, I'll say.
Keep your nose out of it.
I'm not closing up till he breaks.



The School Of Metaphysics

Executioner happy to explain
How his wristwatch works
As he shadows me on the street.
I call him that because he is grim and officious
And wears black.

The clock on the church tower
Had stopped at five to eleven.
The morning newspapers had no date.
The gray building on the corner
Could've been a state pen,

And then he showed up with his watch,
Whose Gothic numerals
And the absence of hands
He wanted me to understand
Right then and there.



Eyes Fastened With Pins

How much death works,
No one knows what a long
Day he puts in. The little
Wife always alone
Ironing death's laundry.
The beautiful daughters
Setting death's supper table.
The neighbors playing
Pinochle in the backyard
Or just sitting on the steps
Drinking beer. Death,
Meanwhile, in a strange
Part of town looking for
Someone with a bad cough,
But the address somehow wrong,
Even death can't figure it out
Among all the locked doors...
And the rain beginning to fall.
Long windy night ahead.
Death with not even a newspaper
To cover his head, not even
A dime to call the one pining away,
Undressing slowly, sleepily,
And stretching naked
On death's side of the bed.

The weekly bookish roundup

What bookish news has piqued my interest this week? Not much, as EVERYTHING still seems to be revolving around Harry Potter. When will it end? Thankfully, I've managed to glean a few non-Potter articles that you might also find interesting. If not, I tried.


Hooray! A new Poet Laureate will be announced today. Ted Kooser is my all-time favorite Poet Laureate, but I'll give Charles Simic a go, especially since he has a new collection coming out next year. Simic is the fifteenth poet to be named to the position, and he "has published more than 20 volumes of poetry, as well as essay collections, translations and a memoir."


Now we turn from good writing to bad: if you suck at writing, you can still be a winner -- at least, next year you can, because this year's winner of the worst writing contest has already been announced. The Texas Pages BookBlog covers more samples of this bad writing here, if you care to read more.


Moving from bad writing to bad covers (and some good ones also), it seems book covers were all the rage this week, as I found more than a few articles focusing on them.

• First, PaperCuts examines the best covers of the year, or you can go right to the source for many more.
  
  
• This blog, however, is a funner (yeah, I said it, funner) place to go for bad book covers.
  
  
• And, last but not least, The Guardian has an interesting article on musicians designing covers.

What about a book without a cover? Is it still a book? What if the "cover" only exists online? Jacket Copy ponders whether a book is still a book if it’s online. What do you think? (I say no. Well, maybe. Aw, hell.)


Finally, his? her? whatever's book Sarah was aiight (except I gave it away, which tells you something), but who knew a stunt would cause an author this much trouble? This will teach you to be dishonest. Or avant-garde. Or insane, whatever the case may be.

Summer Poetry Quest, Part II: Here, Bullet

Here, Bullet
Brian Turner

For the record, I don’t like the preachy. Are you a preacher? No? Then hush, child. I realize that many people either too dumb or too lazy to form their own opinions may benefit from those screaming masses who proudly wear their beliefs like a badge of honor, but I am not one of those. I can form my own opinions, thank you.

My biggest beef? The bumper sticker. There should be a law which limits their application to one FUNNY sticker only. People who use their cars as their own personal billboards to advertise their myriad beliefs on everything from religion and politics to food and music should be forced to clean every car in a 10-mile radius, just like the gum-chewing child who has to scrape all the desks in his class as punishment. Really: has anyone EVER said, Gee, if it weren’t for that bumper sticker I’d never have changed my ways. Thank goodness for that well placed PETA sticker -- it surely opened my eyes! Consider my conversion complete! I don’t think so. At least I hope not. Dear lord.

ok well this one made me giggle

Of course, it is a bit more forgivable for a book to be preachy. When you buy an author’s work, you buy all that he has to give, opinions and all. Still, it’s always best for an author to present the facts, to show the nature of reality objectively and allow the reader to form his own opinion. Thankfully, Brian Turner’s poetry (the second stop on this runaway train that is the Summer Poetry Quest) does just that.

Turner’s Here, Bullet is a collection I’ve been meaning to read since its publication in 2005, when it made a splash due to its subject matter and, if I may be so bold, beauty. Here, Bullet has won several awards since it debuted, beginning with the Beatrice Hawley Award. This collection, however, doesn’t need awards to heighten its visibility; despite the fact that a poetry collection rarely garners major discussion outside of literary circles, the subject matter is important since it describes one soldier’s experiences in Iraq. As a team leader in the US Army, Turner spent a year there and he describes the people, situations, and images on both sides of the cultural and military divide. He avoids taking a clear stand on the war but instead lets his poems speak for themselves, allowing one to form his own conclusions.

I thoroughly enjoyed every poem in the collection – a rarity. I cannot understand why Publishers Weekly panned Turner's poetry when they wrote, “The verse in this book is not good, but it is, in a cultural moment that includes Cindy Sheehan, timely.” Wait, do they mean the poetry is not good? As in bad? Did they read the same Here, Bullet? Although this is no indication of his talent, Turner is educated in his field, having earned an M.F.A. from the University of Oregon, but I maintain, however, that not only is Turner talented, he is able to bring beauty to such a sad and grim topic. Consider this segment from “6 Iraqi Policeman,” which describes the aftermath of a bombing (it is never made clear on which side the bombers belong).

The shocking blood of the men
forms an obscene art: a moustache, alone
on a sidewalk, a blistered hand’s gold ring
still shining, while a medic, Doc Lopez,
pauses to catch his breath, to blow it out
hard, so he might cup the left side of a girl’s face
in one hand, gently, before bandaging
the half gone missing.

While reading Here, Bullet, I diligently underlined selections I wanted to share in my review. Unfortunately, by the time I had finished, I had so many that I'd have nearly no review were I to include them all. There were simply too many lines, too many images, too many entire poems I'd like to quote. Instead, I'll finish with an example of Turner's ability to imbue a scene -- even one involving senseless death, as in so many of his poems -- with a certain ethereal beauty. This selection is taken from “Hwy 1” in which he describes the shooting of a crane:

Cranes roost atop power lines in enormous
bowl-shaped nests of sticks and twigs,
and when a sergeant shoots one from the highway
it pauses, as if amazed that death has found it
here, at 7 a.m. on such a beautiful morning,
before pitching over the side and falling
in a slow unraveling of feathers and wings.

In a nutshell: Excellent poetry that is both relevant and first-rate; poetry fans must not let Here, Bullet pass them by. I feel as though I'm doing him a disservice by not including more snippets of his work, but it really is best to read the poems in their entirety.

Bibliolatry Scale: 5.5 out of 6 stars

Summer Poetry Quest, part I

New British Poetry
Don Paterson and Charles Simic, editors

The Book of Nightmares
Galway Kinnell

I’m picky with my poetry. Just because a poet is critically acclaimed does not mean that his work will speak to me; likewise, poets like Wislawa Szymborska and Ted Kooser (who have been criticized due to their “accessibility,” as though that’s a bad thing) are among my favorite poets.

This summer, already Summer of the Unread Book (Part II), will also be Summer of the Poetry Quest. I plan to feature poetry from both established and up-and-coming poets in an effort to add some great poetry to my collection. Should you happen to know of a good poet or poetry collection, please comment with your recommendations.

As a general rule, I have no rules about poetry. I’m not a “it has to rhyme or it’s not poetry” snob. I don’t prefer older poetry to contemporary poetry. I just like good poetry, poetry that strikes a chord in me, and since I am quite an odd sort of person it is not always easy to find poetry that agrees with me. With this in mind, I cannot help but wonder if I will succeed in my Summer Poetry Quest. I guess we’ll have to see.

My first stop on the quest led me to New British Poetry, a collection of – you guessed it – new British poetry by thirty-six poets born after 1945. As one might expect, not every poem contained in the collection spoke to me, but I was able to flag quite a number of poems to return to at a later time.

In a nutshell: A must for any fan of contemporary poetry; you probably won’t like every poet but you’d be hard pressed to find fault with them all.

Bibliolatry Scale: 4 out of 6 stars


My second stop was Galway Kinnell’s Book of Nightmares, hailed as “a long visionary poem in ten parts.” Kinnell is an award-winning poet whose efforts have won him the Pultizer Prize and National Book Award.

Having read The Book of Nightmares only once, I must first say that I do not feel qualified to fully discuss the scope of the work. It is all-encompassing, and several reads are necessary before one can fully understand it. Kinnell comments mainly on mortality but also on love, politics, and the general pain of the twentieth century, prompting both laughter and tears. When he writes, "the wages of dying is love," he does so with a beauty that transforms even the most painful scene into poetic beauty.

In a nutshell: Kinnell’s work is immense in scope and at times difficult to comprehend; nevertheless reading it is enormously satisfying.

Bibliolatry Scale: 5.5 out of 6 stars

Sinners Welcome, by Mary Karr

Sinners Welcome
Mary Karr

I'm usually not good at reviewing books of poetry, because unless I discuss a few poems in-depth (which I really don't have time for), there isn't much for me to say. Thus, this will be a short review, but at least it will be a postive one.

Mary Karr is another poet I admire. Her poetry is thought-provoking, yet not obscure to the point of confusion. Her latest book of poetry, Sinners Welcome, tackles some difficult subjects (mainly death and other forms of loss), yet the work doesn't come across as depressing or morbid.

In a nutshell: Some good, contemporary poetry that doesn't give cause for complaint. Not every poem is a perfect gem, but a few (like "Pathetic Fallacy" and "The Ice Fisherman") were absolutely wonderful.

Bibliolatry Scale: 4 out of 6 stars

Delights and Shadows, by Ted Kooser

Delights and Shadows
Ted Kooser

I'm picky with my poetry. This is because I believe that much of what passes for "good poetry" these days is actually crap. By crap, I mean that which lacks soul, lacks beauty, just all-around lacks. Most are awfully pretentious, as if obscurity equals some sorth of Truth. (Anne Carson, I'm looking at you, dear.)

So I don't read too much poetry these days, with the exception of Louise Gluck, Mary Karr, Margaret Atwood, and a few other souls who have managed to pierce my rather tough armor. I'm glad I read a particularly insightful review of Ted Kooser's Delights and Shadows, or else I might have lumped him in with the rest of those poets I don't read.

Ted Kooser's poetry is often deemed "accessible," a label that seems damning to the would-be "serious" poet. And while it cannot be denied that his work is extremely accessible, that does not mean his poetry lacks depth and beauty.

Delights and Shadows tackles not only difficult subjects such as the death of his parents and Kooser's own sense of aging, but also "delightful" topics like the simple beauty found everywhere in life. I won't go into a long discussion of my favorite poems (there were too many) or a long analysis of his themes (which is unnecessary). True, his poems are accessible, but don't be mislead by the term. There is great depth to this work; you'll be able to read "simple" poems again and again and find more and more insights as you do.

In a nutshell: Finally, a contemporary poet that doesn't suck. Everyone can find meaning and illumination here.

Bibliolatry Scale: 6 out of 6 stars