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Velocities: New and Selected Poems 1966-1992
“Stephen Dobyns is one of the very finest poets writing in America today. His poems are brave, ravenous, intensely moving, and utterly his own.” –Thomas Lux
Velocities presents a selection of poems spanning more than twenty-five years in the career of Stephen Dobyns, one of the finest and most original poets of our age. This volume brings together new poems and a generous selection of work from Dobyns’s seven previously published collections.
Velocities presents a selection of poems spanning more than twenty-five years in the career of Stephen Dobyns, one of the finest and most original poets of our age. This volume brings together new poems and a generous selection of work from Dobyns’s seven previously published collections.
- GenresPoetry
320 pages, Paperback
First published January 1, 1994
9 people are currently reading
194 people want to read
About the author
Stephen Dobyns
81 books206 followersDobyns was raised in New Jersey, Michigan, Virginia, and Pennsylvania. He was educated at Shimer College, graduated from Wayne State University, and received an MFA from the Iowa Writers' Workshop at the University of Iowa in 1967. He has worked as a reporter for the Detroit News.
He has taught at various academic institutions, including Sarah Lawrence College, the Warren Wilson College MFA Program for Writers, the University of Iowa, Syracuse University, and Boston University.
In much of his poetry and some works of non-genre fiction, Dobyns employs extended tropes, using the ridiculous and the absurd as vehicles to introduce more profound meditations on life, love, and art. He shies neither from the low nor from the sublime, and all in a straightforward narrative voice of reason. His journalistic training has strongly informed this voice.
He has taught at various academic institutions, including Sarah Lawrence College, the Warren Wilson College MFA Program for Writers, the University of Iowa, Syracuse University, and Boston University.
In much of his poetry and some works of non-genre fiction, Dobyns employs extended tropes, using the ridiculous and the absurd as vehicles to introduce more profound meditations on life, love, and art. He shies neither from the low nor from the sublime, and all in a straightforward narrative voice of reason. His journalistic training has strongly informed this voice.
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Displaying 1 - 28 of 28 reviews
March 23, 2008
Dobyns is a poet for those who like their language weave loose, narrative, funny, profound. It's not condensed poetry, in general (though some of the early poems, based on Anglo-Saxon riddles are gnomic, riddling, epigrammatic), but rather the wise-cracking writing of a poet with a great sense of sentence rhythm and of the arc of the page-and-a-half poem. He's darker than Billy Collins and funnier than Phil Levine, has both the comic and the tragic masks hanging on the walls of his poems.
Here's a good example of the sort of things that he does in this terrific collection:
Spiritual Chickens
A man eats a chicken every day for lunch,
and each day the ghost of another chicken
joins the crowd in the dining room. If he could
only see them! Hundreds and hundreds of spiritual
chickens, sitting on chairs, tables, covering
the floor, jammed shoulder to shoulder. At last
there is no more space and one of the chickens
is popped back across the spiritual plain to the earthly.
The man is in the process of picking his teeth.
Suddenly there’s a chicken at the end of the table,
strutting back and forth, not looking at the man
but knowing he is there, as is the way with chickens.
The man makes a grab for the chicken but his hand
passes right through her. He tries to hit the chicken
with a chair and the chair passes through her.
He calls in his wife but she can see nothing.
This is his own private chicken, even if he
fails to recognize her. How is he to know
this is a chicken he ate seven years ago
on a hot and steamy Wednesday in July,
with a little tarragon, a little sour cream?
The man grows afraid. He runs out of his house
flapping his arms and making peculiar hops
until the authorities take him away for a cure.
Faced with the choice between something odd
in the world or something broken in his head,
he opts for the broken head. Certainly,
this is safer than putting his opinions
in jeopardy. Much better to think he had
imagined it, that he had made it happen.
Meanwhile, the chicken struts back and forth
at the end of the table. Here she was, jammed in
with the ghosts of six thousand dead hens, when
suddenly she has the whole place to herself.
Even the nervous man has disappeared. If she
had a brain, she would think she had caused it.
She would grow vain, egotistical, she would
look for someone to fight, but being a chicken
she can just enjoy it and make little squawks,
silent to all except the man who ate her,
who is far off banging his head against a wall
like someone trying to repair a leaky vessel,
making certain that nothing unpleasant gets in
or nothing of value falls out. How happy
he would have been to be born a chicken,
to be of good use to his fellow creatures
and rich in companionship after death.
As it is he is constantly being squeezed
between the world and his idea of the world.
Better to have a broken head—why surrender
his corner on truth?—better just to go crazy.
Here's a good example of the sort of things that he does in this terrific collection:
Spiritual Chickens
A man eats a chicken every day for lunch,
and each day the ghost of another chicken
joins the crowd in the dining room. If he could
only see them! Hundreds and hundreds of spiritual
chickens, sitting on chairs, tables, covering
the floor, jammed shoulder to shoulder. At last
there is no more space and one of the chickens
is popped back across the spiritual plain to the earthly.
The man is in the process of picking his teeth.
Suddenly there’s a chicken at the end of the table,
strutting back and forth, not looking at the man
but knowing he is there, as is the way with chickens.
The man makes a grab for the chicken but his hand
passes right through her. He tries to hit the chicken
with a chair and the chair passes through her.
He calls in his wife but she can see nothing.
This is his own private chicken, even if he
fails to recognize her. How is he to know
this is a chicken he ate seven years ago
on a hot and steamy Wednesday in July,
with a little tarragon, a little sour cream?
The man grows afraid. He runs out of his house
flapping his arms and making peculiar hops
until the authorities take him away for a cure.
Faced with the choice between something odd
in the world or something broken in his head,
he opts for the broken head. Certainly,
this is safer than putting his opinions
in jeopardy. Much better to think he had
imagined it, that he had made it happen.
Meanwhile, the chicken struts back and forth
at the end of the table. Here she was, jammed in
with the ghosts of six thousand dead hens, when
suddenly she has the whole place to herself.
Even the nervous man has disappeared. If she
had a brain, she would think she had caused it.
She would grow vain, egotistical, she would
look for someone to fight, but being a chicken
she can just enjoy it and make little squawks,
silent to all except the man who ate her,
who is far off banging his head against a wall
like someone trying to repair a leaky vessel,
making certain that nothing unpleasant gets in
or nothing of value falls out. How happy
he would have been to be born a chicken,
to be of good use to his fellow creatures
and rich in companionship after death.
As it is he is constantly being squeezed
between the world and his idea of the world.
Better to have a broken head—why surrender
his corner on truth?—better just to go crazy.
November 26, 2017
I love so many poems from Velocities - Spiritual Chickens, Bowlers Anonymous, his Cemetery Nights poems... The list goes on and on. Dobyns writes the most imaginative poetry. Each poem in Velocities completely submerges the reader in a different and utterly bizarre world. By reading this book, you can visit many planets. But be careful, you will come back wondering about the nature of every person you see on the street. You will come back from these poems wondering about your own hidden worlds.
Spiritual Chickens is pretty straightforward. It's a poem about the spirits of consumed chickens inhabiting the dining room of the man who's eaten them. When he realizes that he's surrounded by all these dead chickens he flees and quite possibly goes crazy, though it's possible he was already on the crazy train when he sat down at the table. It's disturbing, enlightening, and hilarious.
Here's a line from Spiritual Chickens - "Meanwhile, the chicken struts back and forth at the end of the table. Here she was, jammed in with the ghosts of six thousand dead hens, when suddenly she has the whole place to herself."
Mermaid is another one of my favorites. In this poem, a man is put inside a tree. He lives in this tree for some time. "He becomes accustomed to the touch of birds' feet, the touch of wind and change of seasons, but to his suffering and sense of loss he becomes accustomed never." Eventually the tree is carved into a statue of a beautiful mermaid. "On windy nights, the mermaid swings from her double chain so the links chafe and rub, making a sound like a creaking door, and in that noise the man trapped in the wood puts all his unhappiness."
Mermaid is one of those poems that has taken the meaning of the poem and uses the reader to further its message. Just like the man in the wood, the poem has been trapped in me. I often swish the lines around inside of me, and like the melancholy sound of the chain, become an outlet for the man's emotions.
Noses and Spleens are two more poems I absolutely adore.
From Noses - "But the nose - tiny rosebud of the mole, galumphing snout of the moose, bump of the skunk, smidgin of the frog - easier to imagine a heaven full of noses than one full of people, clouds packed with those soft triangles of flesh."
From Spleen - "meager hunkerer beneath the heart... you doze to the steady whoosh of my lungs, diminutive car wash of the blood, extracting a few dead cells like a monkey picking lice from its mate..."
Spiritual Chickens is pretty straightforward. It's a poem about the spirits of consumed chickens inhabiting the dining room of the man who's eaten them. When he realizes that he's surrounded by all these dead chickens he flees and quite possibly goes crazy, though it's possible he was already on the crazy train when he sat down at the table. It's disturbing, enlightening, and hilarious.
Here's a line from Spiritual Chickens - "Meanwhile, the chicken struts back and forth at the end of the table. Here she was, jammed in with the ghosts of six thousand dead hens, when suddenly she has the whole place to herself."
Mermaid is another one of my favorites. In this poem, a man is put inside a tree. He lives in this tree for some time. "He becomes accustomed to the touch of birds' feet, the touch of wind and change of seasons, but to his suffering and sense of loss he becomes accustomed never." Eventually the tree is carved into a statue of a beautiful mermaid. "On windy nights, the mermaid swings from her double chain so the links chafe and rub, making a sound like a creaking door, and in that noise the man trapped in the wood puts all his unhappiness."
Mermaid is one of those poems that has taken the meaning of the poem and uses the reader to further its message. Just like the man in the wood, the poem has been trapped in me. I often swish the lines around inside of me, and like the melancholy sound of the chain, become an outlet for the man's emotions.
Noses and Spleens are two more poems I absolutely adore.
From Noses - "But the nose - tiny rosebud of the mole, galumphing snout of the moose, bump of the skunk, smidgin of the frog - easier to imagine a heaven full of noses than one full of people, clouds packed with those soft triangles of flesh."
From Spleen - "meager hunkerer beneath the heart... you doze to the steady whoosh of my lungs, diminutive car wash of the blood, extracting a few dead cells like a monkey picking lice from its mate..."
August 6, 2011
Stephen Dobyns is an excellent example of current creative writing. His poems don't read like poems at all, but mini short stories. I found myself engrossed in his poems and unable to put this book down. Definitely a bit graphic, this book tackles subjects not for the slight of heart, but does so with such poignant and striking vocabulary that it is all worth it by the end of the poem. One of my favorites for sure.
February 15, 2017
I forget who Haden Carruth is,
was, and I have no idea who
Thomas Lux is, but I don't see
what they see. I don't want to
trash the book because it's a
nice edition I picked upat the
fill a bag for a dollar sale. I'll
pass this book on to some morbid,
conflicted scrivener in desperate
need of either rope or a poet
he's never heard of someday.
Someone with a name like Stu,
or Macklin, or Todd, whose drugged
life's bread is new, selected poems.
was, and I have no idea who
Thomas Lux is, but I don't see
what they see. I don't want to
trash the book because it's a
nice edition I picked upat the
fill a bag for a dollar sale. I'll
pass this book on to some morbid,
conflicted scrivener in desperate
need of either rope or a poet
he's never heard of someday.
Someone with a name like Stu,
or Macklin, or Todd, whose drugged
life's bread is new, selected poems.
August 21, 2011
80's in the LSU campus bookstore. I get every new collection of his poetry that comes out and am never disappointed.
August 6, 2021
From my undergrad class:
Perhaps the best way to begin this journal is to say that, due to time constraints, I could not line-by-line read every single poem in Velocities—and I’m saddened by that. I’ll be keeping this book since Dobyns is the only poet I knew before this class—and I loved his work before this class began. In his trademark quirkiness, Dobyns still manages to touch upon something real and emotional so that his poems are not just wasted space. It seems there is more to each piece that meets the eye. Even his most basic linear narratives (such as “Oatmeal Deluxe” and “Tomatoes”), a simple story becomes something more—in these two, Dobyns touches on the universality of love, loss, and rebirth without compromising his style into a pile of turgid clichés (yes, I was looking for an excuse to use the word “turgid” for a long time).
Wikipedia seems to agree, remarking that Dobyns’ work “employs extended tropes, using the ridiculous and the absurd as vehicles to introduce more profound meditations on life, love, and art.” I’m biased because I’m a fan of surrealism and magic realism (which Dobyns interestingly says has not influenced him in the afterword but I’d argue that it has, at least indirectly), but the way that Dobyns can forge beauty out of many almost nonsensical landscapes is just brilliant in my book. Not everything works, I’ll admit—I could do without all those poems about people chopping off their genitalia—but even those might have some redemptive qualities in them if I searched long enough.
I’m not sure what separates these poems from tighter pieces of flash fiction even, but I honestly don’t even care because—for the most part—Dobyns is relatively consistent (though the newer poems aren’t as great, I’ll agree). He’s not a one-trick pony, though—not every poem has elements of this absurdist style; I caught several reflective poems earlier in Griffon and Heat Death where it seemed natural images such as clouds, birds, trees, sky, and water were commonly mentioned (“Rain Song,” “Song of the Drowned Boy,” “The Body of Romulus,” “A Separate Time,” “Song for Making the Birds Come”; Dobyns also knows when to be honest and direct in something like “Fragments”).
I appreciate the fact that most of his poems are much longer pieces, but he even stepped out of this “comfort zone” of his—perhaps—with the set of bare-bones earlier poems on the seven deadly sins. And he still can’t resist his patented style in those (bonus points for “I am the cat rubbing against your ankles, the hot bath after an afternoon of chopping wood”—just because that’s refreshingly sweet in a poem even called “Sloth”). Unusually enough for me, one of the reasons I enjoy Dobyns is not necessarily for the language of any one line but for the consistency of a poem and often the strength of his final images (especially in “Black Dog, Red Dog”). I can remember these poems and they stick with me like a hearty casserole. And I love casseroles—so that’s a good thing. (8)
Perhaps the best way to begin this journal is to say that, due to time constraints, I could not line-by-line read every single poem in Velocities—and I’m saddened by that. I’ll be keeping this book since Dobyns is the only poet I knew before this class—and I loved his work before this class began. In his trademark quirkiness, Dobyns still manages to touch upon something real and emotional so that his poems are not just wasted space. It seems there is more to each piece that meets the eye. Even his most basic linear narratives (such as “Oatmeal Deluxe” and “Tomatoes”), a simple story becomes something more—in these two, Dobyns touches on the universality of love, loss, and rebirth without compromising his style into a pile of turgid clichés (yes, I was looking for an excuse to use the word “turgid” for a long time).
Wikipedia seems to agree, remarking that Dobyns’ work “employs extended tropes, using the ridiculous and the absurd as vehicles to introduce more profound meditations on life, love, and art.” I’m biased because I’m a fan of surrealism and magic realism (which Dobyns interestingly says has not influenced him in the afterword but I’d argue that it has, at least indirectly), but the way that Dobyns can forge beauty out of many almost nonsensical landscapes is just brilliant in my book. Not everything works, I’ll admit—I could do without all those poems about people chopping off their genitalia—but even those might have some redemptive qualities in them if I searched long enough.
I’m not sure what separates these poems from tighter pieces of flash fiction even, but I honestly don’t even care because—for the most part—Dobyns is relatively consistent (though the newer poems aren’t as great, I’ll agree). He’s not a one-trick pony, though—not every poem has elements of this absurdist style; I caught several reflective poems earlier in Griffon and Heat Death where it seemed natural images such as clouds, birds, trees, sky, and water were commonly mentioned (“Rain Song,” “Song of the Drowned Boy,” “The Body of Romulus,” “A Separate Time,” “Song for Making the Birds Come”; Dobyns also knows when to be honest and direct in something like “Fragments”).
I appreciate the fact that most of his poems are much longer pieces, but he even stepped out of this “comfort zone” of his—perhaps—with the set of bare-bones earlier poems on the seven deadly sins. And he still can’t resist his patented style in those (bonus points for “I am the cat rubbing against your ankles, the hot bath after an afternoon of chopping wood”—just because that’s refreshingly sweet in a poem even called “Sloth”). Unusually enough for me, one of the reasons I enjoy Dobyns is not necessarily for the language of any one line but for the consistency of a poem and often the strength of his final images (especially in “Black Dog, Red Dog”). I can remember these poems and they stick with me like a hearty casserole. And I love casseroles—so that’s a good thing. (8)
February 12, 2023
Favorite Poems:
“Tenderly”
“Pastel Dresses”
“Passing the Word”
“In the Hospital”
“The Place Between Us”
“The Ways of Keys”
“Letter Beginning with the First Line of Your Letter”
“Tenderly”
“Pastel Dresses”
“Passing the Word”
“In the Hospital”
“The Place Between Us”
“The Ways of Keys”
“Letter Beginning with the First Line of Your Letter”
December 10, 2023
Brilliant, thought-provoking, mostly narrative poems that find the joy and humor in a dark world.
October 30, 2012
This nearly comprehensive offering of poems from Dobyns is excellent. Fans of poetry can see Dobyns progression from a more lyric style poet moving towards his more recent narrative style in the '90's and today. "How to Like It" is probably one of his more popular poems in the collection, but there is much more to soak up an experience. Dobyns has quickly become one of my favorite poets. So much so I recently ordered his latest book of poetry and his more pedagogical focused work discussing the craft and how he approaches it. Highly recommended.
June 17, 2007
I stumbled across Stephen Dobyns on the internet and was blown away by his poem "How to Like it." On a whim, I bought this big volume of his poetry and found it amazing from start to finish. Dobyns is as approachable and funny as any other poet I've ever read, and yet you always leave his poems with something bigger than you might have expected.
August 14, 2007
I picked this up while browsing through the poetry section of a chain bookstore and just fell in love with Dobyns' poems. His style is more narrative and modern than other poets. And he has a great sense of humour even when the subject matter is less than delectable. Cool stuff. All the best for Stephen Dobyns. I hope more people will discover his writings.
July 21, 2009
I've read it three times so far, so there's plenty that calls me back. In his more recent poems, Dobyns seems obsessed with age, flatulence, and the word "prick." When he's not so "male", older poems like "Oatmeal Deluxe" and "Spiritual Chickens" are brilliant, surreal reflections on how we confront ourselves. (This is what I like about Mark Strand's work as well.)
April 15, 2014
I think that I am just not a poetry kind of guy. I really tried to give this a chance and I see so many good reviews, but this just did not do it for me. Every now and then, one of the poems would hit me but, mostly, I found this very "meh." I am very inexperienced with poetry, though, so I am inclined to give this 3 stars simply because I don't know any better.
May 28, 2007
My husband (then friend) gave me this book as a graduation gift. He read to me from it and the rest was pretty much history ... I was in love (with him and the book)! Dobyns is a gifted poet and storyteller. These poems don't ever get old to me.
August 25, 2008
I don't normally do this, but: 3.5 stars.
Some poems were absolutely stunning, some were just a bit too awkward for me, and most of the poems blended between these two extremes. Every time I wanted to stop reading, I would hit a poem that floored me.
Some poems were absolutely stunning, some were just a bit too awkward for me, and most of the poems blended between these two extremes. Every time I wanted to stop reading, I would hit a poem that floored me.
November 26, 2014
Dobyns and his prose poems are some of the best in modern American poetry of the last 50 years. This collection is a good sampling for acolytes of poetry and a good reintroduction to a 20+ years poetry career.
March 15, 2007
Really the best book of poetry I have ever stumbled upon. Reads more like a novel but has great insight into the most basic emotions and truths of human character.
October 23, 2018
Great book.
December 2, 2007
Always been a favorite poet of mine since my teen years, I return to this edition for inspiration...great selections.
Pablo Neruda is a wonderful poem.
Pablo Neruda is a wonderful poem.
January 13, 2010
This is my favorite book. I have been reading it over and over again, all over the world, for 14 years.
February 27, 2008
Marrative poetry. *Mwah
May 1, 2008
a book full of wonderfully idiosyncratic poems--you must read "can poetry matter?" a perfect companion piece for billy collins' "workshop"--
July 16, 2008
responsive, nostalgic, melancholic, infinite...
January 5, 2009
For me three of these poems made the book worth reading and sharing. A poet I'd heard good things about and wanted to explore.
February 15, 2009
I like Dobyns, but I wouldn't quite call this his best work.
September 15, 2009
This was tough--one of those classic 2 and 1/2 star moments. Because I loved it in 1991, and found it eye-opening and astonishing and what have you; but do I love it now? I do not. It is teh meh.
September 16, 2012
one of my favourite books of poetry, still, after more than 20 years
June 4, 2014
I love it.
Displaying 1 - 28 of 28 reviews