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Selected Poems: 1938-1988
Half a century of writing and publishing by one of our most celebrated poets. Winner of the 1989 Lenore Marshall/Nation Prize for Poetry.
- GenresPoetry
208 pages, Paperback
Published March 1, 1988
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Displaying 1 - 8 of 8 reviews
June 19, 2017
Having resisted the temptation to look up a picture of Thomas McGrath online, I'm free to imagine him: As a young man he had lots of dark hair held in place by pomade, tight white T-shirts and jeans with the cuffs rolled up, black shoes, and a cigarette drooping between drooping lips below drooping eyes. At middle age he would have worn flannel shirts and work boots, smoked even more cigarettes, and grown thinner in the face, less well-shaved. By old age his face would be perpetually whiskered and craggy, his eyes brighter and paler, and his shirt sleeves always rolled just below the elbow.
Thomas McGrath was among the last generation of truly great American poets. I have no idea what cruel twist of fate kept me unaware of his work for this long, but I'm ecstatic that I finally discovered it—McGrath's poems are complex, sometimes difficult, often heartbreakingly beautiful (an overused phrase, but I can't think of a better one), occasionally perverse, and frequently hilarious. They don't read like modern poems, but like ancient Greek or Chinese poems you can read in their original language and context.
He speaks often of death, often of the wickedness of modern society, often of the salty reality of the common man and his everyday world. McGrath was an idealist, an American Communist guilty of romanticizing the Revolutions of the Soviet Bloc, and an atheist whose dismissals of the Christian religion are just screeds against his perception of Western Protestantism (I gather all this from the poems themselves), but none of that is important. Somehow he avoids politicizing any of this, instead drawing out the universality of any and all human experience.
There's really only one poem about poetry in this collection, and it actually made me laugh out loud when I read it (not a regular occurrence). It's called, "You Can Start the Poetry Now, or: News from Crazy Horse," and involves a Beat poet spouting some eminently confusing stream-of-conscious lines while an audience member (perhaps McGrath himself?) rudely punctuates the recital with demands to "start the poetry now." There is another poem included earlier that actually has "ars poetica" in its title, but that's just a condemnation of ivory tower poets. Which is, ultimately, what the Crazy Horse poem is about, too, and which makes McGrath essential reading for anyone who cares about the true craft and usefulness of poetry.
Thomas McGrath was among the last generation of truly great American poets. I have no idea what cruel twist of fate kept me unaware of his work for this long, but I'm ecstatic that I finally discovered it—McGrath's poems are complex, sometimes difficult, often heartbreakingly beautiful (an overused phrase, but I can't think of a better one), occasionally perverse, and frequently hilarious. They don't read like modern poems, but like ancient Greek or Chinese poems you can read in their original language and context.
He speaks often of death, often of the wickedness of modern society, often of the salty reality of the common man and his everyday world. McGrath was an idealist, an American Communist guilty of romanticizing the Revolutions of the Soviet Bloc, and an atheist whose dismissals of the Christian religion are just screeds against his perception of Western Protestantism (I gather all this from the poems themselves), but none of that is important. Somehow he avoids politicizing any of this, instead drawing out the universality of any and all human experience.
There's really only one poem about poetry in this collection, and it actually made me laugh out loud when I read it (not a regular occurrence). It's called, "You Can Start the Poetry Now, or: News from Crazy Horse," and involves a Beat poet spouting some eminently confusing stream-of-conscious lines while an audience member (perhaps McGrath himself?) rudely punctuates the recital with demands to "start the poetry now." There is another poem included earlier that actually has "ars poetica" in its title, but that's just a condemnation of ivory tower poets. Which is, ultimately, what the Crazy Horse poem is about, too, and which makes McGrath essential reading for anyone who cares about the true craft and usefulness of poetry.
May 1, 2025
I’m embarrassed to admit that I grabbed this off a bookstore shelf, thinking it was the poet McGrath that Dwight Garner had recommended. But that was an Australian McGrath, not this North Dakotan of some reputation.
Reading selections from his whole career reveal his bag of tricks isn’t that big (boy, he likes to start poems describing something moving). His verses sometimes feel derivative of those poets who we know.
But he does offer some good aphorisms and clever turns of phrase along the way. And he commanded attention and inspired some ruminations. Good on him.
Reading selections from his whole career reveal his bag of tricks isn’t that big (boy, he likes to start poems describing something moving). His verses sometimes feel derivative of those poets who we know.
But he does offer some good aphorisms and clever turns of phrase along the way. And he commanded attention and inspired some ruminations. Good on him.
April 28, 2024
The Progress of the Soul
Where once I loved my flesh,
That social fellow,
Now I want security of bone
And cherish the silence of my skeleton.
Where once I walked the world
Hunting the devil,
Now I find the darkness and the void
Within my side.
First to be good, then to be happy I
Worked and prayed.
Before the midnight, like the foul fiend,
I killed my dear friend.
Hope unto hope, dream beyond monstrous dream
I sought the world.
Now, at the black pitch and midnight of despair,
I find it was always here.
Where once I loved my flesh,
That social fellow,
Now I want security of bone
And cherish the silence of my skeleton.
Where once I walked the world
Hunting the devil,
Now I find the darkness and the void
Within my side.
First to be good, then to be happy I
Worked and prayed.
Before the midnight, like the foul fiend,
I killed my dear friend.
Hope unto hope, dream beyond monstrous dream
I sought the world.
Now, at the black pitch and midnight of despair,
I find it was always here.
June 2, 2019
Sajak-sajak pendek beliau lagi tepat, tajam dan mengena berbanding sajak-sajak panjang beliau.
January 15, 2009
Excellent Selected collection.
Read
January 7, 2013811.54 M1473s 1988
Read
February 2, 2009This is the real shit. Look out, you dewy palmed slush mouths.
Want to Read
September 26, 2018Author recommended by Eleanor Arnason
Displaying 1 - 8 of 8 reviews