Okay, ya bastards. I can give fewer than four stars, even when it pains me to do so. I don’t read much poetry—too frequently it leaves me baffled. I do have a sense, occasionally, of poetic language; it’s not until that language finds its way into a poem that it escapes my comprehension. At best, I will occasionally think such-and-such a poem probably
has some merit, and that merit will be available to me if I read the poem over, and over, and yet again. I’m afraid few of these poems will gain when reread, although some might, and most will be. Troubled syntax me follows. In addition to the poems, this volume includes two reminiscences: one on Conrad Aiken, and one on Dylan Thomas—friends of David Markson whose acquaintance he relished. He makes me want to read them.
One I liked for all the wrong reasons:
Something there is that doesn’t love a frost.
Whose words are these? I’m cold and lost.
I think I’ll take the road less traveled by.
I’ve miles to go, thank God I’m high.