The Veil

by Denis Johnson

A collection of poems of grief, regret, nightmare, acceptance, redemption, and the dark recesses of the soul

Genres: Poetry

78 pages, Paperback

First published October 12, 1987

About the author

Poet, playwright and author Denis Johnson was born in Munich, West Germany, in 1949 and was raised in Tokyo, Manila and Washington. He earned a masters' degree from the University of Iowa and received many awards for his work, including a Lannan Fellowship in Fiction (1993), a Whiting Writer's Award (1986), the Aga Khan Prize for Fiction from the Paris Review for Train Dreams, and most recently, the National Book Award for Fiction (2007).

Reviews

[Steven Godin · Rating 5 out of 5]

Our love has been.
I see the rain.
Nothing
is abstract any more:
I nearly expect one of these
droplets loose tonight on the avenues of wind
to identify itself as my life.
Now love is not a feeling
like wrath or sadness, but an act
like murdering the stars.

And now the limp suits
drying out on the railings of hotels,
and the sorrows
drifting like perfume,
and telephones ringing in the darkness
and milk
tears shining on roughed cheeks.
While nearby
sighs the sea like God, the sea of breath, the resolute
gull ocean trembling its boats.

[Jennifer Juffer · Rating 5 out of 5]

I may be somewhat biased in my love for Johnson, having walked the same streets, shopped in the same stores, studied the same iconic small urban city landscape of Iowa City that he mentions briefly in some of his poems.

However, more than my simple fascination with the familiar coincidence of having shopped at iconic John’s Grocery, before I knew it was famous, the words spoken aloud or in my mind beat off a rhythmic staccato of “this makes sense of the world”, “this is reality”, “this can be seen if you look closely “, this, this, this, this...

That’s what I enjoy about Johnson’s prose. It has an offbeat quality that probably plays havoc with some people’s senses. How often is the mundane truly brought to the spotlight?
No. Seriously?

He’s fascinating to read.
Unlike most, there is a different pattern or rhythm or reason or whatever is in season to describe what’s most important RIGHT here, RIGHT now. ... or RIGHT then... RIGHT there... somewhere in the past.

After all, being a poet gives you free license to write what you wish. The only catch - if you wish to be successful, the writer must resonate with the reader.
Johnson accomplishes that on a visceral, emotive, intellectual, and almost tactile level.
Hard to do with a brain, a proverbial pen and some words.

[Solita · Rating 4 out of 5]

I prefer poems with short lines; most of these poems have long lines; thick, wide poems. Some long, some short. Most do not, but a few poems have brief lines, and I feel I can breathe. That's just me. Long lines, poems that go on for pages, make me feel overwhelmed. But Denis Johnson is so intense, and deep, and imaginative, that even when I'm a bit lost, the beauty is enough. This is poetry that requires rereads. Which I will do.

"...The accident
that was my life will have its witnesses:
now, while the world lies wholly motionless
and sorry in a crapulence of stars..."

I had to look up the word "crapulence." Of course. That is Denis Johnson. Right there. Love his writing. So much.

[Robb Todd]

Read this as part of the "Poems Collected and New." The form and style of these poems almost made them seem like not poems. What's a poem now anyway? I liked the collection, but it's not the strongest of the bunch. Still, some really nice moments.