Upon reading Gerald Locklin's "New and Selected Poems," I found myself recalling a passage from Whitman's "Song of Myself": "Do I contradict myself?/Very well then I contradict myself,/I am large, I contain multitudes." Locklin's poems emanate from a similarly large self that also contains a multiplicity of voices. There are the exquisitely tender words to a young wife: "No, I'm still here. Let me lead you / Back to bed and let me speak / In simple words of the break / Of day, let me comfort you." But there's also the brutal, hilarious profanity of "PLEASE TELL ME JUST WHAT THE F*** I HAVE TO DO", with its unforgettable depiction of the disgraced televangelist Jimmy Swaggart. (No direct quote here. Sorry.) There are poems that are immediately, conversationally accessible, with observations about almost any subject that might cross the poet's mind (e.g.,teaching, politics, children, marriage, divorce, alcohol, sobriety, sex, aging, and death--the last to be avoided for as long as possible); and there are others--most notably the art and jazz poems--that require, and abundantly reward, a bit more effort. But whatever the subject, tone, and level of difficulty, the prevailing ethos is perhaps best expressed in "New Kids on the Quad": "The great critics of modern literature. / Such as Edmund Wilson, Richard Ellman, / And William York Tindall, / Took extremely difficult works / And made them accessible./ These post-modernist critics / Take much less difficult works / And render them incomprehensible." Whatever literary faults of which one might accuse Locklin (and I can't think of any at the moment), incomprehensibility--very gratifyingly--is not among them.
For fans of Locklin's work, this is a excellent compendium of what they've come to know and love through the years.
I read the first poem, then the last, then I go backwards for a bit, then I read them randomly. Here's one I like. I've never heard of Locklin before and I don't remember why I put him on my list.
After the Fact
A friend of mine once told me How the U.S. Army did a survey on geniuses
And the only common denominator they could isolate Was the ability to tolerate clutter.
That's when (Figuring it was easier than reading books And secretly gloating over my officemate's neatness) I began to let things pile up on my desk.
At 37
I realized for the first time today That I'm too old to be drafted now.
Whattaya bet that our next war Will be a good war
And that it will arrive Just when I need a good excuse To get out of the house?