Hawk Moon

by Sam Shepard

In this collection of more than fifty monologues, short stories and poems—Shepard's first—one of America's most acclaimed writers and actors reflects on growing up in America, rock and roll, the sex of fishes, and other topics. Shepard displays his virtuosic sense of the rhythms of the American landscape.

Genres: Poetry, Fiction, Short Stories, Plays, American, Collections, The United States Of America

93 pages, Paperback

First published January 1, 1975

About the author

Sam Shepard was an American artist who worked as an award-winning playwright, writer and actor. His many written works are known for being frank and often absurd, as well as for having an authentic sense of the style and sensibility of the gritty modern American west. He was an actor of the stage and motion pictures; a director of stage and film; author of several books of short stories, essays, and memoirs; and a musician.

Reviews

[Andrew · Rating 3 out of 5]

A solid collection of poetry and short prose - a form at which Shepard invariably excels - but the perspective is still limited compared to how expansive it eventually grows. He goes for ferocious violence and goofy scatalogical non-sequiturs throughout, which hinders the ability of the stronger and more ruminative work to really get its hooks in.

I guess this was written (or at least collected and published) during a time in which Shepard had relocated to the UK in an attempt to become a rock star, and I'm honestly not sure whatever became of that idea. He's clearly taken with the form, but it's also sobering to substitute modern popular bands for the ones he speaks of so reverently here. Like, yeah, Sticky Fingers is a better album than, like, the new album from....I'm not even sure who the modern equivalent would be, actually. But the way he speaks of Dylan, the Stones, "The Airplane," The Who, etc., is howlingly silly if we replace those with, like, The Black Keys and Jack White or something.

The best stories here are the simplest and most prosaic, and I've no doubt Shepard learns this lesson sooner rather than later. Really looking forward to reading over the rest of his 1970s output.

[Michael]

I made it to the beach and ran straight into the ocean up to my waist and stopped. The freezing water brought me to my senses. This was the test. To go straight ahead and never come back or to turn back now. I stayed like that until morning singing my song. When the sun came the bottom half of me was frozen stiff, the top half was warm.

I never forget watching Paris, Texas late night on American TV as a teenager – the heartbreaking story of an amnesiac cowboy-type (Harry Dean Stanton) emerging from the Texan desert to be reunited with his small son, who hardly remembers him. There is a long drive from Texas to L.A. along dusty highways with stops at diners and roadside motels; Ry Cooder’s lonesome, distorted guitar strumming underscoring long scenes of sparse dialogue and visual richness. Little did I know that I had just entered Sam Shepard’s country – the America that exists (or existed) in the margins of the greater story that USA was telling itself and the rest of the world at the time. Only much later did I connect Paris, Texas with the screen presence of Shepard himself in numerous performances from Terrence Malick’s magisterial Days of Heaven, the career defining role of Chuck Yeager in The Right Stuff, on to the eponymous role in Schlöndorff’s adaptation of Homo Faber and many, many other films over the following decades. Always a stamp of quality on anything he appeared in.

DAKOTA

Outside Rapid City flat blue grey Sioux plains a sign with a light old red peeled paint says see the last of the great buffalo in sawdust broken pails and crumbling corral the cow and her calf in half moon light touched by the hand of one old man says he knew Kit Carson back when he’d shoot an Injun or two for breakfast the cow snorts flying sawdust chips the calf sucks the cars drone past going too fast to stop for a sideshow.

When this slim volume of (prose) poems, story (fragments), monologues and musings that is Hawk Moon first came out, Sam Shepard was in his early thirties and already a much lauded and awarded playwright of the independent scene; he had worked as a scriptwriter on Michelangelo Antonioni’s Zabriskie Point and he was recently out of an extramarital affair with Patti Smith (to whom the book is dedicated.) Limited in number of pages, the book packs many volumes of potent imagery and story fragments between its covers. In this book, we are in the heart of Sam’s country, and it is a primal version of the territory he would explore throughout his career. Here the drinking is heavy, the violence is grand guignol, and the sexual urges are primitive. We are dragged across the American map and briefly into Mexico and Canada. There are Hopi Injuns and Mexican whores, rock ‘n’ rollers of every stripe, rodeo cowboys and every other imaginable outsider.

Stampedes of choppers and hogs roaring through fishing villages. Rolling Stones posters pasted to the sides of barns and churches. Tattoos showing up on local girls in places you’d never think of. The Mounties were called in but things were too far gone. There was no way of telling a Canadian kid from an American. Everybody fucking and sucking and smoking and shooting and dancing right out in the open. And far off you could hear the sound of America cracking open and crashing into the sea.

There is little that is beautiful in this book except for the writing itself. Reading these early prose pieces of Shepard’s, I was reminded of the cinema of Peckinpah and the books of Cormac McCarthy, but without the overarching story and moral heartbeat. It is clearly a patchwork of many things written over a long period of time; the young author testing a new creative vein.

[Tyler · Rating 3 out of 5]

A mostly enjoyable collection of monologues, short fiction and poetry from Shepard that is said to be his first foray out of writing only for the stage. For my taste, it suffered from an inclination towards a sometimes-crude Beat-like style here and there, but ultimately was a quick read with a lot of readily enjoyable material that reminded me more of, say, Denis Johnson, or Shepard's later short collections like Great Dream of Heaven.

[Jackson · Rating 5 out of 5]

Clear out and let Josh Brolin adapt all of these doozies.

[Ali · Rating 3 out of 5]

داستان های کوتاه سام شپارد هم مانند نمایش نامه هایش یک مجموعه ی منتظم بر مبنای یک پلات ساده اند، موضوعاتی که در دست هر نویسنده ای به یک قصه تبدیل نمی شوند، شپارد از آنها حکایتی می سازد دلچسب، شنیدنی و گاه بسیار تکان دهنده.

[Dana Jerman · Rating 4 out of 5]

Early Shepard. Comforts me to know that, at least at this stage of his career, I currently write on par with him. Great images, esp of a drunk man climbing out of his car which is stuck in a tree.

[Delaney Aby Saalman · Rating 3 out of 5]

It takes the most educated, dedicated of reader with a PhD and a decade of experience in teaching literature to the masses to be able to pick up on the fact that Sam Shepard really, really liked The Rolling Stones…

Jokes aside, some of these entries of flash fiction are shockingly absorbing and filled with a disturbing sort of detritus that pulls you into the grime of it all. Shepard is very gifted as a writer here, but what stands out the most is the way his imagination and ability to see the world combine together to create these scenarios to begin with. Some of the pieces aren’t quite as fascinating as the others, and his short-form prose definitely outshines the poetry that accompanies it. Seeing as this collection clocks in as a featherweight, weighing under 100 pages, it does seem a little silly for me to suggest that some of the inclusions in it be culled a bit more, but if it had only been filled with the very best examples of both the prose and poetry, Shepard’s talent would have much more of an impact here.

[False · Rating 2 out of 5]

A mishmash of the early writings of Sam Shepard including short stories, poems and memoir. I started reading Shepard for the first time this year, and so far I have to say I have not been impressed. This "stuff" was written when Shepard was a young man and it shows, also the effort to be "cool" which affects everything he writes. Lots of references to rock and roll, the Rolling Stones, Keith Richard and "Wild Horses." All the Patti Smith influence, and he dedicates this work to her. The strongest pieces seem to be when he's writing about the American West and his hometown of Durate, California.

[G. Munckel · Rating 3 out of 5]

Relatos breves, poemas y prosa poética; textos buenos, textos no tan buenos y otros nada memorables; cuentos que cierran redondo, prosa beatnik y sueños… hay de todo en este pequeño libro, que por momentos parece una serie de postales sobre el hastío que le sigue a la violencia, al sexo y al rock 'n' roll.

Mis favoritos: “Leche sangrienta”, “Ciudad de la esperanza” y los monólogos “Voces de los muertos”.

[Ben Gertner · Rating 4 out of 5]

Beautifully weird collection of short stories and poems from Mr. Shepard. Not as sharp as Motel Chronicles, but some gems in there definitely; short stories like Demon’s Test, City of Hope, and Rolling Renault are great. Definitely gets stronger as it goes along—worth sticking with it.

[Simon Sweetman · Rating 4 out of 5]

Monologues, prose-poems, poetry, short stories and other micro-fictions here, notebook-stuff in many ways. Some great ideas and some great realisations. Terrific writing.

[Christine Pietz · Rating 3 out of 5]

Great imagery. Knocked off stars because this really inst my thing (prose, poetry, ocassional abstractness), so i didn't enjoy it as much as i think others could.

[Aaron · Rating 3 out of 5]

I love Sam Shepard. Im glad I read it, but wouldn’t recommend unless you’re a Sam Shepard completist.

[Matthew Koebele · Rating 3 out of 5]

3 and a half!!

[Tônio Caetano · Rating 5 out of 5]

Sam Shepard é uma faca afiada entrando devagar. Um gosto doce de dia frio e ensolarado.

[Germán · Rating 4 out of 5]

"Maybe you’d love me more if I didn’t kill for a living
Having to smell my Luger Blackhawk every night
Counting the bullets like my pay check
It’s true we move around a lot and it’s hard on the kid
You get used to the Dodge and the next day it’s gone
At least he gets to see the lay of the land
He loves the trains and the passport changes
What’s a lie now and then
The blood on the tie
He’s seen that in the movies
Pass it off for lipstick
The powder burned eye
Tell him the matches exploded
Or better yet tell him I’m a Cold Killer
Trying to pay his way through College
And give him a kiss on the head
And tuck him in his bed
And write down what he mumbles in his sky blue sleep."

(Letter From a Cold Blood Killer, 1973)