Robert Creeley (1926–2005)

My face is my own, I thought.
But you have seen it
turn into a thousand years.
I watched you cry.

I have known stress as of late. It rents my slumber. It distracts my reading eye. I only want malty Oktoberfest and Godard. I settle for pizza. Compromise. Sated. Sad.

There's a scarred security in this collection. Friendships and warm contact are a currency in a vague, steeled world of toil. There's still something possibly American at play, a tattered optimism.

Time is ever elusive. There's a posture to be pursued, a wind-tousled hilltop tree or a violin concerto on an alarm clock radio.… (mehr)

Impulses stir
To write a review
Using
The clipped,
Broken

What use is such unfinished verse, what does matter with coffee breath, a taillight out and a strange dream about a girl once dated?

Bobbie--take me away, perhaps to Indiana. Jon just read these poems, purchased last week in Syracuse. The elegy for the author's mother bruised me. I can't admit to similar damage elsewhere in the collection. Somehow this Bobbie onetime muse of Creeley eases into the sidelong, a refrain echoes rainfall and a tossed comment bleeds detail. The reader is free to ponder and unlace.… (mehr)