Frederick Seidel has the ability to capture the spirit of the historical moment--to be, as Rimbaud demands, "utterly contemporary." No poet since Robert Lowell has given us such a pithy, incisive view of the larger social and political world. To be sure, this is a poet who travels in rarefied circles, among the rich and powerful. Seidel recalls a visit to the set of Zabriskie Point, a cocktail party with Robert Kennedy, and the carnivorous age at Grace "I remember the vanished days of the great steak houses. / Before the miniaturization in electronics. / When Robert Wagner was mayor and men ate meat." But he can move us, too, in poems like "Heart Art": A man is masturbating his heart out, Swinging in the hammock of the Internet. He rocks back and forth, his cursor points And selects. He swings between repetitive extremes Among the come-ons in the chat rooms. But finally he clicks on one World Wide Web Woman who cares. It isn't entirely accidental if some of Seidel's poems read like screenplays, given that he makes his living writing them. Yet this most cinematic of poets is also capable of hitting the universal note. At once wise, bitter, laconic, and brutal, Frederick Seidel both deserves--and would amply reward--a wider readership. --Mark Rudman
Let's face it--the cover is what draws attention to a book. Whenever I shop for books in a store, covers draw me in. I know people who read books because martini glasses are on the cover and people who won't read books that have pink covers. This cover did not draw me in because it was stuck on a shelf, but I've spent plenty of time trying to figure it out. It's fascinating. If you have any idea of what it is, let me know.
Aside from having a fabulous cover, American poet Frederick Seidel has interesting, skillfully crafted poems in this collection, Going Fast. He takes a journey across the world in major cities and in his mind. His imagery comes from wordplay, of which I am a huge fan, and juxtaposition of events both mundane and internationally crisis driven. The poems confront love and death as much of poetry does, but he uses a fresh, unique voice and view.
Go to France. Go to Tahiti. Go to England and Italy. Then come back to the states. Stay in New York City. All under 100 pages of verse.
The murderer has been injecting her remorselessly With succinylcholine, which he mixes in her daily insulin. She's too weak to give herself her shots. By the time she has figured it out, She is helpless.
She can't move any part of her face. She can't write a note. She can't speak To say she hasn't had a stroke.
It's terrifying that she's aware That something terrible is being done to her. One day he ups the dose. And gets scared. She has to be rushed to the local hospital and intubated.
They know at the hospital who she is, One of the richest women in the world. The murderer hands the attending a faked M.R.I. It flaunts the name of a world authority. Showing she has had a stroke.
The neurologist on call introduces herself to the murderer and concurs. Locked-in Syndrome, just about the worst. Alive, with staring eyes. The mind is unaffected.
And with the patient looking on expressionlessly, Screaming don't let him take me home, without a sign or sound. The doctor tells the murderer he can take her home, If that's their wish.
Their little beach house has forty rooms. Her elevator is carved mahogany. The Great Gatsby swimming pool upstairs is kept full and never used. Her tower bedroom flies out over the winter ocean, spreading its wings.
Mother, you're going to die, He tells her, once they're alone. You have the right to remain silent. I'm making a joke.
I'll read you your rights. He takes a syringe. A woman has the right to bare arms. I particularly like them bare. I might as well be talking to cement.
My first exposure to this poet generally considered among the most important writing today. Looking forward to reading more of his work and seeing if I can connect better with his well-crafted but somewhat off-putting verse.
Enjoyed it's non-travelogue-name-dropping-esque bits most of all, but also managed to find lyricism in the structures and sites this Seidel around that I didn't in "Ooga-Booga." Neato. I'm a Seidel fan.
It's not really fair but Seidel reminds me of a modern Antonin Artaud, with the insight but without the mental illness. On the contrary, how frighteningly sane he is, how he makes sense....