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Traveling at High Speeds
The kinetic energy of John Rybicki’s poems is his unmistakable signature. His poem “Traveling at High Speeds” opens with the lines, “Some night my body takes the shape of this city.” That urban shape is the shape of John Rybicki’s poetry as well. The city in question is, of course, Detroit, but whether Detroit itself is the subject―as it is in many of his poems―or not, the cadence of its streets informs the slashing attack of Rybicki’s vivid language.
- GenresPoetry
65 pages, Paperback
First published January 28, 1996
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Displaying 1 - 3 of 3 reviews
September 1, 2025
I’m so glad I got a copy. Ottessa Moshfegh wrote about John Rybicki on substack and I was curious to see what type of poetry might’ve influenced her writing, or at least spoke to her. I liked every poem so much. I think my favorite is “Becoming.” Ironically I have been thinking a lot about that word and what Kurt Vonnegut has to say about it in relation to creating art. Im looking forward to rereading this and checking out his other work. I think Rybicki and Moshfegh are very different writers, I mean poetry and fiction are so different for one, but they both have such intense style I will always relate them now. I also have a special tenderness towards anything Midwest and Rybicki is from Michigan.
March 9, 2013
John Rybicki is a beautiful, beautiful man and more people need to read his stuff <3 I love what he does with words.
December 21, 2021
https://rogueliterarysociety.com/f/tr...
…Our bodies are anchors
thrown down by angels,
and today the cold sings
in through my knees,
as my voice spirals up
toward a porthole to the sky…
From the very beginning, say as far back as 1996, I was dreadfully wrong about John Rybicki. Yes, I recognized the fine poetry, so much so I pretty much bought up all the original copies of this first book, the dark burgundy-colored cloth hardcover published in a simple library binding back in 1996. I even had John sign and number the fifty copies I purchased. But I tended to discount the book in whole as being somewhat posturing, perhaps a bit copying, a plagiarism of sorts. Note that because of Gordon Lish, the poet Jack Gilbert was focused on as our collective hero. Nobody wrote poems like Jack Gilbert or caught the song of living such a rich and seductive life as well as he did. Plus Gilbert didn’t give a shit what any of us thought about him or his writing. In fact he disdained the instant fame originally awarded him in 1962 and so disappeared to Greece for close to twenty years until Gordon Lish resurrected him without his permission. It is all documented in the correspondence between these two men that can be confirmed by perusing the documents harbored at the Lilly Library in Bloomington, Indiana. John Rybicki and I both wished to write poetry that carried the power of a Gilbert line or stanza. Plus Gilbert loved women and wrote beautifully about them. And he wrote about real love, not just sex and naked bodies, but deep love and long accomplishment. And Rybicki seemed to capture that same tone and cadence in many of his poems. And there was, and is, nothing wrong with keeping step with the great ones and wishing to exceed them. I was wrong about Rybicki.
Outburst from a Chemical Sleep
I want a watch
made from the bones
in God’s hands,
a house with a chair
nailed to the roof,
and a dame who cooks
in the flesh,
and with the shades up,
or the bet is off.
I recently posted the above poem on my website along with a photograph I took of my naked wife in our small apartment kitchen. I recently discovered that I have been living the life Rybicki wrote about. I have a willing wife agreeable to do just about anything to further the production of my art. Perhaps initially my feelings for Rybicki were derived from jealousy. I needed to discount Rybicki’s first book of poetry as a one-hit wonder. And it may have been, but I doubt it. I have yet to read his other two books published after. But I intend to take a look soon. I ordered his last book, the one that delves deeply into his beloved wife’s long battle with cancer and her eventual death. Life continues to happen to me and as I age I am wrought with my own measures of sadness, including the deaths and diseases of loved ones. It is possible I wasn’t yet ready to feel Rybicki’s sorrow the way I intend to now. But after twenty-five years of writing my own poetry and attempting to get into the meat of my life, I am prepared to get to know Rybicki better. And it isn’t as if we did not know each other. We both attended a Gordon Lish writing class in Chicago back in 1997. Rybicki joined us for a late supper on one of the nights. He then accompanied us all back to our hotel room downtown and proceeded to hop and flit around on the beds like a Mexican jumping bean. Gordon labeled him manic and suggested he “learn how to leave the party” as Lish confessed he had the same problem himself years ago. At the time I just had my first poem published in the New Orleans Review and was fast becoming Lish’s new rock star. Gordon was always a champion for his favorite writers, and even though Barton Allen was in the room with us and was for a time the heir apparent to Jack Gilbert, the praise started coming my way. I think both Rybicki and Allen did not like it much. I likely wouldn’t either. But at the time I was reveling in my new station as both anointed friend and privileged student in the Lish stable of writers. As much as I appreciated the poetry of John Rybicki I still wanted to beat him, to rise above his work and be respected as the current “best” poet among the many acolytes following Gordon Lish. I suppose we’ll both have to wait awhile for history ro decide. Meanwhile, let me say for the record that I do love John Rybicki. And his poetry.
…Our bodies are anchors
thrown down by angels,
and today the cold sings
in through my knees,
as my voice spirals up
toward a porthole to the sky…
From the very beginning, say as far back as 1996, I was dreadfully wrong about John Rybicki. Yes, I recognized the fine poetry, so much so I pretty much bought up all the original copies of this first book, the dark burgundy-colored cloth hardcover published in a simple library binding back in 1996. I even had John sign and number the fifty copies I purchased. But I tended to discount the book in whole as being somewhat posturing, perhaps a bit copying, a plagiarism of sorts. Note that because of Gordon Lish, the poet Jack Gilbert was focused on as our collective hero. Nobody wrote poems like Jack Gilbert or caught the song of living such a rich and seductive life as well as he did. Plus Gilbert didn’t give a shit what any of us thought about him or his writing. In fact he disdained the instant fame originally awarded him in 1962 and so disappeared to Greece for close to twenty years until Gordon Lish resurrected him without his permission. It is all documented in the correspondence between these two men that can be confirmed by perusing the documents harbored at the Lilly Library in Bloomington, Indiana. John Rybicki and I both wished to write poetry that carried the power of a Gilbert line or stanza. Plus Gilbert loved women and wrote beautifully about them. And he wrote about real love, not just sex and naked bodies, but deep love and long accomplishment. And Rybicki seemed to capture that same tone and cadence in many of his poems. And there was, and is, nothing wrong with keeping step with the great ones and wishing to exceed them. I was wrong about Rybicki.
Outburst from a Chemical Sleep
I want a watch
made from the bones
in God’s hands,
a house with a chair
nailed to the roof,
and a dame who cooks
in the flesh,
and with the shades up,
or the bet is off.
I recently posted the above poem on my website along with a photograph I took of my naked wife in our small apartment kitchen. I recently discovered that I have been living the life Rybicki wrote about. I have a willing wife agreeable to do just about anything to further the production of my art. Perhaps initially my feelings for Rybicki were derived from jealousy. I needed to discount Rybicki’s first book of poetry as a one-hit wonder. And it may have been, but I doubt it. I have yet to read his other two books published after. But I intend to take a look soon. I ordered his last book, the one that delves deeply into his beloved wife’s long battle with cancer and her eventual death. Life continues to happen to me and as I age I am wrought with my own measures of sadness, including the deaths and diseases of loved ones. It is possible I wasn’t yet ready to feel Rybicki’s sorrow the way I intend to now. But after twenty-five years of writing my own poetry and attempting to get into the meat of my life, I am prepared to get to know Rybicki better. And it isn’t as if we did not know each other. We both attended a Gordon Lish writing class in Chicago back in 1997. Rybicki joined us for a late supper on one of the nights. He then accompanied us all back to our hotel room downtown and proceeded to hop and flit around on the beds like a Mexican jumping bean. Gordon labeled him manic and suggested he “learn how to leave the party” as Lish confessed he had the same problem himself years ago. At the time I just had my first poem published in the New Orleans Review and was fast becoming Lish’s new rock star. Gordon was always a champion for his favorite writers, and even though Barton Allen was in the room with us and was for a time the heir apparent to Jack Gilbert, the praise started coming my way. I think both Rybicki and Allen did not like it much. I likely wouldn’t either. But at the time I was reveling in my new station as both anointed friend and privileged student in the Lish stable of writers. As much as I appreciated the poetry of John Rybicki I still wanted to beat him, to rise above his work and be respected as the current “best” poet among the many acolytes following Gordon Lish. I suppose we’ll both have to wait awhile for history ro decide. Meanwhile, let me say for the record that I do love John Rybicki. And his poetry.
Displaying 1 - 3 of 3 reviews