Sleek For the Long Flight

by William Matthews

"A strange blend of dice, bones, and wine... an elegant book. Highly recommended."-- Small Press

Genres: Poetry

79 pages, Paperback

First published January 1, 1972

About the author

William Procter Matthews III was an American poet and essayist.

Reviews

[John Vanderslice · Rating 4 out of 5]

So good to encounter this book again after many years. It was the first book I ever read by Matthews, during my first semester as a graduate student. I remember being both amazed and educated by it then. Reading it now, it still holds up. Matthews is one of those eternal poets. Drastically personal, but his intimate discussions of his own loves always seem to suggest the broader forces at work on the planet and on human beings: death, love, isolation, food, warmth. (I can’t think of a contemporary poet who is so aware of his own mortality; who almost seems to revel in the fact.) Especially with the poems in this book, you could call Matthews a poet of the primitive. But that would not do justice to the rich and masterly images he employs, nor to his knowledge of poetry broadly. These are poems for both the head and the heart, the ear and the mind. There was only one William Matthews.

[Kate Seader · Rating 5 out of 5]

A second hand find. Where most poets use imagery to soften and sublime the reader Matthews cuts quickly to the core. Still beautiful but somehow more true.
A personal favorite was Attention, Everyone

[Tyler Monsein · Rating 5 out of 5]

I've never read poems like this -- it's less like poetry and more like shadow puppetry: Look, I can make you see a rabbit. Look, I can make you see a woman. We're all aware of the illusion (nothing is hidden here) and we can laugh when his hands fumble or cramp up. It's just so nice to watch.

So many wonderful lines in here. "I keep the place clean. / Anything you worship / will let you be its priest." Lots of driving late at night, headlights, fires; watching cats and dogs roll around, picking the burrs off. LOTS of overzealously horny pieces (much more than I'd like). But then, things like this: "It's the old indifference, the calm / of loving nothing. / Let the amino acids / have the universe." No one writes like that. It's TS Eliot on a long late afternoon car ride with Raymond Carver or Richard Yates. I'm sold. "Attention, Everyone" should be taught in schools.