Death, fame, art, and religion become comic subjects in Twenty First Century Blues, the fourth collection from Richard Cecil.Whether elegizing his predecessors, predicting his own end, channeling Dickinson’s “corpse-eye-view of stony death,” or imagining Yeats living in Indiana and dealing with English department politics, Cecil tempers his morbidity with a straightforward, tender brand of humor and a refreshing honesty about the shelf life of contemporary poetry. Deadpan and dark, yet pulsing with the spirit of life, these poems speak of historic France, Italy, and Switzerland, where religious persecutions, ancient catastrophes, and other, less personal, failures overshadow the disappointments and shortcomings of the poet’s modern life in the Midwest. Grimly cheered by these revelations, Cecil shows that poets, like cicadas screaming in the summer air, “won’t shut up until we’re skeletons.”
Twenty First Century Blues by Richard Cecil is another poetry collection that I find difficult to review. Cecil writes with wry humor about the every day--from anger over non-promotion within the university to feeding his kitten at home to travels abroad. And he also covers historic Europe and ancient catastrophes. There are down-home, solid descriptions and quirky, radical takes on almost everything. I particularly enjoyed his poems that take aim at the academic life. But then, I work in the same department as he does, so I get all the references--"The Writing Requirement" and "A Letter to William Butler Yeats" are particular favorites. Four stars.
Poetry Snippets:
I paused to peer up at the stained glass windows shooting blue and ruby beams like lasers through the gloom. ~from "Albi Cathedral" (p. 7)
But how I envy Daudet's spendthrift hero, pursued and hounded for his precious talent. ~from "Fool's Gold" (p. 18)
You can't revisit a place where you were happy, as you can't re-love someone you've loved and left ~from "Package Tour" (p. 34)
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This one was hard for me to get through. Mostly because I don't feel the subject matter in these poems, which feature a lot of the speaker's whining about academic life and minor spiritual quandaries, justifies their length.