Poetry. "MORTAL, EVERLASTING offers poems which are measured, patient, musical, witty, serious, formal in feeling, and totally human. These poems create enchanted spaces rich in memory and imagination-all we have to draw our surest knowledge from"-Howard McCord. "The poems of Jeffrey Levine honor language in ways few poets can.Reading Jeffrey Levine's poems, I am reminded that the moment poetry takes over our lives is the instant we know there is no going back"-Ray Gonzales.
It may be there's a time of day when everything is cool and silent, the day itself cool and silent, the kitchen lights barely on, or not, say,
a morning, summersoft, the single cypress swaying in something only it can feel, the bread in its basket, the linen in its drawer.
Everything put away and the day not even started -- peace like calligraphy, the stars set, just now lighting fishermen through another world.
It may be such a time exists though I can't find it, Lord knows, not even in the Cavatina movement of Beethoven's last quartet.
Should I say that it is short, it is short and incomparably beautiful? Would saying so make a difference?
Or should I say that while listening, I'm obsessed with the spelling of Beaujolais, which I cannot seem to manage without a dictionary, though
I can remember the taste of each growth, the graininess, near nobility for such a slight wine, of a Brouilly from a decent year, or the hint
of raspberries in a good Fleurie. Or should I say that Beethoven died before the first performance of this work,
or should I say only that I have not, even so, given up my obsession with love? That is a possible thing --
possible as cistern, possible as caique, accessible as fountain, as easily plucked as frankincense, sensate as sea urchins
with their long spines, idling red-tipped in the shallow tidal pools. In my obsession, I have the whole piece by heart
so that its layers line my chest until its parts are overwhelmed and driven out by the perfect Beaujolais or by the astonishment of sex or by cool
silent incipient love itself. That, or the obsession with its slenderness so palpable that I confuse passion for the real thing,
and who is there to tell me which is which or even which vices are permissible and which not, what wine to drink, what bread to eat, why
this obsession with knowing that singular possible thing? That culpable thing. That frail thing. That frail, findable, culpable almost possible thing with a hint
of raspberries and even a near nobility for such a slight thing, out there in the back country roads Sundays in early morning, everything quiet, everything cool, its tail sprinkled with salt.
I've decided that with these poetry collections I read in January, I am just giving them a 3 star rating. Not that they may not be better or worse than that, only that I feel glad I read them yet also not smart enough to give an intelligent review of the poetry within these pages. I feel like poetry is very much one of those things that it either clicks or it doesn't, certain poems resonate while others don't connect - and I don't think I'm qualified to review the finer points of any collection.
I like to dip my toes into the world of poetry now and then, however I think after the 5 collections I sat with through January I'm on a bit of a poetry break.
Many of these poems are so tender. I enjoy the quiet intimacies they describe. It's such a gift to get this glimpse into various relationships: mother/son, father/son, or lovers. Here are some of my favorite moments:
"My son studied the blossom as if he might find a flaw."
"the jazz pianist with a gift for the half-diminished chord."
"If only I'd postponed my birth"
"That small shudder when she pressed the cold against her summer blouse."
First no light, then light, First no birds, then song. No wind; wind."