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The Standing Wave
An exciting first collection of poetry from an emerging talent, Gabriel Spera's The Standing Wave was a winner of the 2002 National Poetry Series Open Competition, selected by esteemed poet Dave Smith. For over twenty years, the National Poetry Series has discovered many new and emerging voices and has been instrumental in launching the careers of poets and writers such as Billy Collins, Mark Doty, Denis Johnson, Cole Swensen, Thylias Moss, Mark Levine, and Dionisio Martinez.
- GenresPoetry
96 pages, Paperback
First published July 1, 2003
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Displaying 1 - 10 of 10 reviews
January 17, 2019
Tarantula
The boys are taunting it with a leg-long stick-
diverting it from whatever purpose
compels this living scribble across the weathered planks
stacked along the shed. The color of burlap
and coffee grounds, a fat knot, a greedy hand,
it somehow glides—when not stopped—
with the grace of a harvester
roiling above the fields. Not nearly as deadly
as they dream, still it pricks
their imaginations, this creeper through corncribs,
this crawler up walls, reclusive spindler
with powers that defy its flyweight size.
And they can squash it with a good stomp or stone
but so far haven’t, held in check
by something closer to reverence
than mere mischief, something quickened
by the sight of what can kill
without remorse or retribution.
It is an arsenal, an acid—even
they must hold their distance, though they
hunger for its risk of sudden fury, for its being
beyond the reach of human hands.
They want control, they want destruction
on demand, want something punished
for no good reason, they want this tangler
to react to their tapping stick, to swarm,
like need, all arms and eyes, over something
pitiful and small, but all it does is freeze—
and not in fear but calculation, unwilling
to surrender the least pinch of its reserve.
And so they lean in, grinning as though
trying a father’s patience, or as though
they’d gained some mastery of this killer
that shows no inkling, no concern,
that its every moment hangs by the filament
of their whim. They are not humbled
by the flawless machinery of its form,
they have not learned yet to judge power
by restraint—and still they fling their crooked stick
to the far weeds and crouch in silence as it
sidles back to the dark that gave it shape.
Kindness
It’s the small acts of kindness I take strength in, acts
of grace so beautiful and true, they make me weep
with reckless hope. Just take this story of the five
who went out cruising in the canyons after dark
and found a car parked on an empty stretch of road.
They smashed the windshield, slashed the tires, jammed
the locks,
and drove away—but then turned back to see if there
were anything inside the car worth taking. It’s then
they find the owners, two young couples, early teens
who’d sneaked away from home to watch the stars come out
and kiss. They rush them, beat the boys, and drag the girls
into the brush. The one, her skirt half torn away,
pinned down, looks up and begs the stranger straddling her,
don’t kill me, please, don’t kill me. Shut your mouth, he says,
don’t look me in the face, you’ll be all right, and moves
a hand down to his belt. She turns her head, and says
as though to no one in the world, then kiss my cheek,
as a promise you won’t kill me when it’s done. And so
he pauses, perched above her, silent, though the dark
is queasy with the sound of muffled sobs, he stops
and kisses her wet cheek, and I, who’ve judged my kind
most harshly always, I with no good word for men,
can only hang my head to know the emptiness,
the pity, in this small and stunning act of grace.
The boys are taunting it with a leg-long stick-
diverting it from whatever purpose
compels this living scribble across the weathered planks
stacked along the shed. The color of burlap
and coffee grounds, a fat knot, a greedy hand,
it somehow glides—when not stopped—
with the grace of a harvester
roiling above the fields. Not nearly as deadly
as they dream, still it pricks
their imaginations, this creeper through corncribs,
this crawler up walls, reclusive spindler
with powers that defy its flyweight size.
And they can squash it with a good stomp or stone
but so far haven’t, held in check
by something closer to reverence
than mere mischief, something quickened
by the sight of what can kill
without remorse or retribution.
It is an arsenal, an acid—even
they must hold their distance, though they
hunger for its risk of sudden fury, for its being
beyond the reach of human hands.
They want control, they want destruction
on demand, want something punished
for no good reason, they want this tangler
to react to their tapping stick, to swarm,
like need, all arms and eyes, over something
pitiful and small, but all it does is freeze—
and not in fear but calculation, unwilling
to surrender the least pinch of its reserve.
And so they lean in, grinning as though
trying a father’s patience, or as though
they’d gained some mastery of this killer
that shows no inkling, no concern,
that its every moment hangs by the filament
of their whim. They are not humbled
by the flawless machinery of its form,
they have not learned yet to judge power
by restraint—and still they fling their crooked stick
to the far weeds and crouch in silence as it
sidles back to the dark that gave it shape.
Kindness
It’s the small acts of kindness I take strength in, acts
of grace so beautiful and true, they make me weep
with reckless hope. Just take this story of the five
who went out cruising in the canyons after dark
and found a car parked on an empty stretch of road.
They smashed the windshield, slashed the tires, jammed
the locks,
and drove away—but then turned back to see if there
were anything inside the car worth taking. It’s then
they find the owners, two young couples, early teens
who’d sneaked away from home to watch the stars come out
and kiss. They rush them, beat the boys, and drag the girls
into the brush. The one, her skirt half torn away,
pinned down, looks up and begs the stranger straddling her,
don’t kill me, please, don’t kill me. Shut your mouth, he says,
don’t look me in the face, you’ll be all right, and moves
a hand down to his belt. She turns her head, and says
as though to no one in the world, then kiss my cheek,
as a promise you won’t kill me when it’s done. And so
he pauses, perched above her, silent, though the dark
is queasy with the sound of muffled sobs, he stops
and kisses her wet cheek, and I, who’ve judged my kind
most harshly always, I with no good word for men,
can only hang my head to know the emptiness,
the pity, in this small and stunning act of grace.
June 14, 2019
This collection starts strong but in the end is merely okay. There are two basic themes underlying Spera's poetry: humble creatures—bats, spiders, butterflies, jellyfish—and, well, more humble creatures, but of the human variety—factory workers, parcel sorters, soldiers, slum-dwellers. I am in awe of how Spera is able to expand upon such simple ideas with original figurative language. His appreciation for the natural world is contagious. Many of his poems feature subtle, yet very skillful rhymes. Sometimes entire poems have a rhyme scheme, other times the rhymes sneak into the lines. It became a game for me to try to find out whether or not there were rhymes in the poem I was reading. His style is a bit on the dense side and I would recommend savouring these poems sparingly instead of blazing through them in a day like I did.
In the end, I'm not sure if it's fair to say that I "liked" these poems. "Admiration" is a better word.
Poems that I admired:
"The Mission Olive," "Mosquito Spawn," "Moon Jelly," "The One That Almost Got Away," "United Parcel," "In A Field Outside of Town."
=6/33 (18.2%) poems that I admired.
In the end, I'm not sure if it's fair to say that I "liked" these poems. "Admiration" is a better word.
Poems that I admired:
"The Mission Olive," "Mosquito Spawn," "Moon Jelly," "The One That Almost Got Away," "United Parcel," "In A Field Outside of Town."
=6/33 (18.2%) poems that I admired.
July 29, 2011
2004 PEN Center USA Award Winner for Poetry
July 2, 2018
This is my first time to read this poet's work, and I was totally impressed! His craftsmanship in rhythm and meter was proven by his poems therein like "Weaver's Error", "In the Fields Outside Town" and "Balkan" which altogether illustrated his impassioned lyricism and strong grip of imagery. The culminating lines of every piece were like fireworks quiet and impetuous in the beginning and soon to explode and mesmerize us in the end. Rare are the poets who could articulate the longing of his heart, and vicariously our hearts, through images of the country front yard, of the port dwelt by seagulls and elusive masts, and of women staring at the horizon's end. This poet has found his voice, his legacy. Pardon me for overstating.
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January 29, 2020I kinda like this book
This entire review has been hidden because of spoilers.
January 24, 2025
Four and a half stars
Spera uses a wide range of forms to create some excellent poetry. Most of the poems are successful, though even the less successful have some good in them.
Spera uses a wide range of forms to create some excellent poetry. Most of the poems are successful, though even the less successful have some good in them.
Read
May 19, 2009Gabe's collection is brilliant! No wonder one of his poems was selected for Best American Poetry. More will be, I'm sure, in the years to come. We always knew he'd make it back in the day...
January 31, 2010
Taken individually, these are gorgeous poems. But I found myself wanting more variety of style and tone throughout the book.
October 12, 2013
Excellent writing, illuminating insights into phenomena great and small...
March 5, 2016
An elegant collection that examines aspects of life with vividness, clarity, and in some cases brutality. Beautiful work.
Displaying 1 - 10 of 10 reviews