This is the touchingly entitled collection of poems William Matthews had completed shortly before dying, just after his fifty-fifth birthday in November 1997. Is death ever entirely unexpected? Not, perhaps, by a collector of experience, a gourmet of language, who can refer to "death flickering in you like a pilot light." In AFTER ALL, Matthews seems to be looking his last on all things lovely: music, food and wine, love. In the stunning central poem, "Dire Cure," which forms a kind of spine to the book, he describes the remarkable implications of the "heroic measures" that saved the life and restored the health of his wife from "a children's cancer (doesn't that possessive break your heart?)." He evokes the death of his favorite jazz musician, Charles Mingus. He speaks of cats, dogs, pigs, sheep, of the past, of history, of joys proposed, but especially, with his characteristic relaxed wit, of language and its quiddities: "My love says I think too damn much and maybe she's right." After All is the last word from one of the most pensive and delicious of all our poets.
I’ve read Matthews’ collected poems and knew that I loved his writing, especially his late poems, so I was delighted to find this book in my library. It’s tragic he died at age 55. I want more poems like this.
This tiny volume, only 44 poems, 55 pages, is huge in insight, subject matter, enjoyment, and even laughs. It contains my favorite of his poems, “A Poetry Reading at West Point.” Here’s a link if you haven’t read it.
Another poem I find hilarious is “Rescue,” about his cat’s gymnastics while he’s taking a shower. I love poetry that blends humor with all the other aspects of life. This book includes several poems about word play (clever, but less sincere), his wife’s terrible time with cancer treatment, truffle-hunting pigs, a history of pork, jazz musician Mingus (who figures heavily in his early poems), travel to different parts of the world, his son’s wedding, a party with Martha Mitchell, his troubled love life: you get the drift.
It seems Matthews could find inspiration anywhere. He demonstrates how in “Finn Sheep.” On a visit to Scotland, he had a bit of writer’s block. Instead of making himself miserable, staring at the blank page, he grabbed a bus to Edinburgh for inspiration. On the way, he “saw some astonishing sheep with canoe-shaped ears like a jackrabbit’s.”
“…And I needed to know the name of such a sheep, because I never met a fact I didn’t like. And because it’s not that I believe in words, but I believe by words….”
Here are a few more short quotes I especially loved
From “Job Interview”: “A good thing I speak fluent Fog.”
From “Truffle Pigs”: “They know what to ignore; these pigs are innocent of metaphor.”
From “Defenestrations in Prague”: “…death flickering in you like a pilot light.”
From “Inspiration”:
“…Today
I loathe poetry. I hate the clotted dicty poems of the great modernists, disdainful of their truant audience…
I hate poetry readings and the dreaded verb ‘to share.’ Let me share this knife with your throat, suggested Mack…”
Sometimes too plainspoken for my Stevensian instincts, I nonetheless take great pleasure in a number of the poems. Here are a few examples:
Yes, there's a cure for youth, but it's fatal. And a cure for grace: you say what you mean, but of course you have to know what that is.
-from "Manners"
"The farther we go, the more we give up," we could complaint, but there's always more to lose. The vacuum that dearth abhors is dearth. We all drink from a leaking up.
from "Memory"
Most apt of all:
. . .I'm the bad mood if you try to cheer me out of I'll smack you. Impasse is where I come to escape from. It takes a deep belief in one's own ignorance; it takes, I tell you, desperate measures.
from "Inspiration"
There's plenty of inspiration to be had. Despair, too; Matthews died at 55, and he was a disciplined writer.