This is the book that made me fall in love with poetry, and that's BIG, man. When I was 14, 15, 16, I thought this was a book of overwhelming genius, talent, creativity, insanity. How could anyone not love this stuff-it was sooo different.
In hindsight, however, I've found that it takes a certain type of person to enjoy Carroll's poetry. Academics, for the most part, seem to have ignored him; he's very similar to ee cummings, minus the eloquence. But he's a NYC poet writing about heroin, rock n roll, pain, heartache, love--seriously, why wouldn't academics love him? I honestly don't know. Maybe the same reason most of them ignore Bukowski.
On the other side of the coin, he may be too complex for the everyday reader of poetry. He plays with big ideas, and can be tricky in his use of language. Maybe not tricky, maybe clouded? ambigious? overly figurative? This is probably why his work never goes over well in my creative writing class. what the hell is this guy trying to say? why doesn't he just say what he means????
But it's also why I love him. So here is my favorite poem, from pg 66, the first poem I ever memorized:
"Little Ode on St Anne's Day"
You're growing up
and rain sort of remains
on the branches of a tree
that will someday rule the earth.
and that's good
that there's rain
it clears the month
of your sorry rainbow expressions
and clears the streets
of the silent armies...
so we can dance