On receiving the National Book Critics Circle Award in 1990 for his third book, Transparent Gestures, Rodney Jones was hailed as a brand-new world-class poet. This collection of poems, rich in irony, sensuousness, and pleasure, reveals his robust, humorous, earthy, and cerebral view of reality and his exploration of all regions and sensibilities of American life.
An early collection for Rodney Jones, and one that has the beginnings of his particular talents on display-- a penchant for the banal made lyric, heavy-doses of irony, and strong use of natural language without the minimalism linked to earlier writers in the mode. In some ways, this reads like a late 20th century Whitman. While this collection does feel dated at points, Jones really seems to begin to come into his own here.
Any cry begins profound, in the ore of words, in the lungs' pink lode and honeycomb. It thickens like gravity in the unbuckled udder. Hear it, and you'd know the theme was loss, or how every cry's a compass with no needle that offers, anyway, some vague directions, as the disbeliever offers up his prayer to the razed heavens, to the absent gods.
This was okay, but I felt like the verse itself was too baldfaced and unlyrical at many points in time. It's politically interesting, but I'm not very attached to it.