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Cargando... Lovers of the Lostpor Wesley McNair
   Ninguno Actualmente no hay Conversaciones sobre este libro.  avaland | Jan 16, 2011 |  sin reseñas | añadir una reseña
Praised by Maxine Kumin as "a master craftsman" and Philip Levine as "one of the great storytellers of contemporary poetry," Wesley McNair has selected for this volume a wide range of narratives, lyrics, and meditations. His subjects, as always, are ordinary people and the lives they lead; their hopes and sorrows, their struggles and triumphs, all providing insight into New England, America, and the more obscure geography of the human heart. McNair's verse whether about the trauma of family conflict, the humor of popular culture, or the solace of place represents a singular achievement, providing what the Ruminator Review called "one of the most individual and original bodies of work by a poet of his generation." Although he has been writing and publishing poetry for over forty years, this volume constitutes his first book of selected poems, and here, the best of these forty years is displayed in a single volume. No se han encontrado descripciones de biblioteca. |
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 Google Books — Cargando...GénerosSistema Decimal Melvil (DDC)813.54Literature English (North America) American fiction 20th Century 1945-1999Clasificación de la Biblioteca del CongresoValoraciónPromedio: (3.25)
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I'd love to share a very funny poem that both my husband and I thought very clever and funny, titled "The Characters of Dirty Jokes," but I thought some might be offended (so, you'll have to buy the book! ha ha!). There is another one titled "Smoking", about Bogart & Bacall smoking on screen, that reminded me just a little of Billy Collins's "The Last Cigarette" - same wistfulness (it's too long to transcribe here). McNair has several poems in this collection related to hair, and the losing of it. "The Bald Spot," "On Losing My Hair," and this one:
Hymn to the Comb-Over
How the thickest of them erupt just
above the ear, cresting in waves so stiff
no wind can move them. Let us praise them
in all of their varieties, some skinny
as the bands of headphones, some rising
from a part that extnds halfway around
the head, others four or five strings
stretched so taut the scalp resembles
a musical instrument. Let us praise the sprays
that hold them, and the combs that coax
such abundance to the front of the head
in the mirror, the combers entirely forget
the back. And let us celebrate the combers,
who address the old sorrow of time's passing
day after day, bringing out of the barrenness
of mid-life this ridiculous and wonderful
harvest, no wishful flag of hope but, thick
or thin, the flag itself, unfurled for us all
in subways, office and mall across America.
Not only do I love the humor in this, but also the wistfulness and the sounds—the music of it is just wonderful. These are not his only subjects, of course. (