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Wrong Angel
This first book of poems was originally published in New York in 1966.
80 pages, Paperback
First published June 1, 1969
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November 27, 2021
There is a blurb for this by Ashbery which compares it to Hart Crane. Not so! I definitely detect that Moss, at the time of these poems anyway, is a lesser light emanating from Dylan Thomas (who sometimes mistakenly gets compared to Crane so that would explain the comparison).
I would say that the perspective and style of this overall is very reminiscent of Dylan Thomas and to avoid merely being Thomas’ epigone he adds Lorca into the mix. This is a somewhat interesting mix of influences and most of the poems in it are competent. They are musical without insisting on their formalism. There are some exciting effusions. And every now and then, as with the piece entitled “Who Are You?”, a poem rises to brush it’s topmost whispy hairs against brilliance. But it very much feels like the debut poetry book it is. It leaves you wanting. Its dark whimsicalities make weary and there is not much else. It is easy to see why he never had a strong reputation.
Here is one of the most lovely poems in the collection by my estimation:
The Gift
She has given me the gift of my own desire;
Hollowed by fire as a tree
I have betrayed love for desire.
Gladly I would betray desire
But I can not, until once more
Love burns me through
I would say that the perspective and style of this overall is very reminiscent of Dylan Thomas and to avoid merely being Thomas’ epigone he adds Lorca into the mix. This is a somewhat interesting mix of influences and most of the poems in it are competent. They are musical without insisting on their formalism. There are some exciting effusions. And every now and then, as with the piece entitled “Who Are You?”, a poem rises to brush it’s topmost whispy hairs against brilliance. But it very much feels like the debut poetry book it is. It leaves you wanting. Its dark whimsicalities make weary and there is not much else. It is easy to see why he never had a strong reputation.
Here is one of the most lovely poems in the collection by my estimation:
The Gift
She has given me the gift of my own desire;
Hollowed by fire as a tree
I have betrayed love for desire.
Gladly I would betray desire
But I can not, until once more
Love burns me through
Displaying 1 of 1 review