Conjure

by Michael Donaghy

This is Michael Donaghy's first collection of poetry in seven years.

Genres: Poetry

Paperback

First published September 8, 2000

About the author

Michael Donaghy (May 24, 1954 – September 16, 2004) was an award-winning New York poet and musician, who lived in London from 1985.

poetryarchive.org/poetryarchive/singl...

poetryfoundation.org/bio/michael-donaghy

Reviews

[Paul]

A truly wonderful collection of poetry. Donaghy writes with humour yet also manages to make deeper points and be truly moving. His writing is also so fabulously descriptive. I’ll definitely be reading more of his work.

A Messenger

With no less purpose than the swifts
that scrawl my name across the sky,
the hand of an obsessed pianist
quivers inches from my face.

She’s anchored so she hangs mid-air
like an angel in a Christmas play.
As fidgety, but tinier, and she’s forgot
her only line, Fear not.

With no less purpose,
than her prey, the fritillary,
flicks a wing and swells the Yangtze,
she’s spun a filament across my path.

I could no more cross this line
and wreck her morning’s work
than graph the plot that brought me
eye to compound eye with her.

I’d worry for her, out so far
on such tenuous connections,
but the crosshairs of the gunsight
are implied in her precision.

[Sophie]

dnf @50%

Yes, I dnf'd a book that was only 50 pages long. Sue me.

According to an article I read, this is supposed to be some of the best poetry of all time? For me- not so much. Eh.

[Caspar "moved to storygraph" Bryant]

michael's excellent work continues - arguably his most famous collection? Heartbreaker too

He's one of those poets who seems to produce pieces which get everywhere. But one loses the name. Several times during this collection I had the moment of Oh so it was YOU who wrote this one ??

[Russio]

Fathers and sons, Hamlet's ghost, lies, confessions, grief, drinking, magic...some of the recurrent themes in this collection from the late, and it would seem also great, poet who I had the pleasure to meet in the early 90s.

Moving between witty and poignant, sometimes both, with some striking poems that capture an instant perfectly. My Flu evokes that unreal primal hinterland of illness. Not Knowing the Words talks of the insularity of grief, arching into a feeling of near shame at the raw intensity of the desire to not move on. Regarding Our Late Correspondence talks of the snag that one can feel when conjuring an expression, a precise evocation of emotion, and its loss in that second; its allusion to the contrast between free-flowing snooker and the fine line in concentration where one loses their grip on a game. The Years takes a maudlin view of the aggression of time.

Lots of poems to chew over and connect with. Worth your time.

[Mira]

I knew this poet years ago...what a loss that he died
tragically at fifty.

[Andrew]

A powerfully-evocative collection of emotions & reactions to a life lived at the edges...some stark insights into what poetry can achieve when written from an angle.