These poems span a wide range of subjects, including love and death, pathos and humor, and the extraordinary dimensions of such deceptively ordinary topics as "Women Married to Houses," "The Tractor Driver's Funeral," and "When the Buck or Two Steakhouse Changed Hands." McDougall combines rich wit and irony with keen insight into the human condition.
Finally, a book worth hanging onto. I've read this one before, but it's been long enough that I didn't remember whether I liked McDougall all that well, or whether the pack rat in me was holding onto this, so I took another spin through it. And I was holding onto it because it's good. McDougall writes short, to-the-point, and oftentimes very funny things that conceal the usual subjects of poetry-- pain, loss, existential crises. But it isn't often that they're presented with such good humor:
Coming Back, I Visit Myself
I knock twice on the door of the old apartment. A woman lets me in. My silver toiletries. My plants. My knife and fork and napkin. I look to see what has died or been given away but everything is here.
I say nothing. I am not supposed to say anything. I poke my head in the closet looking for the good green dress.
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Oftentimes it seems that the best poetry is created with unexpected juxtaposition, just as the best humor is, and one wonders at times why humor is not used as a device more often in poetry. And while I'd hesitate to go so far as to draw a comparison between McDougall, a relatively understated humorist, and Mel Brooks, it's certainly not out of the question. This is a fine little book, one which will remain on my shelves to be read again after enough time has passed that I have let the memory of the small pleasures contained herein blur, and I'll likely be just as pleasantly surprised again at how good a book this is.