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Icarus Redux
In his third collection, Icarus Redux, Matt Santateresa's poems come alive with the intelligence and wit that are his trademark. Whether creating luminous dreamscapes or meditating on Ovid by the Black Sea, Santateresa gets below the surface of images and into their substance. In the titular sequence, 'Icarus Redux, ' he delivers a startling revision of the myth of Icarus. In between the construction of his wax wings by an emotionally remote father and the downward plummet of his fall, this Icarus watches television, listens to the radio, complains on the phone and worships daredevil Evil Knieval. Through this collection, its flair for dramatic situations, and its spirited, lively language, a talented poet comes into his own
96 pages, Paperback
First published May 1, 2003
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January 20, 2022
Like Prufrock I pull sweat pants up
To my knees and divulge secrets to myself
I had no inkling existed at this point in time. It is brazen
To be alive with antiquity dead
And pursue dreams still
As clouds scud, their shapes like sheep
The time to forget has arrived
A sole telephone booth I a saviour
My 911 I shall not want
And the valley here is steely-jawed industrial
Having no shepherds.
* * *
He says the birds haven't a clue
they come in full tilt, nothing
to tip them off, though God's given them
acute eyesight, hearing that could home in
on a troubled mate miles away
and bam! Smack into the second
floor window, some are simply dazed
and fall on the patio, shaken, rebound
and resume flight
others are killed by the reflection
of familiar trees, grove
sparrow, woodpecker, thrush, no particular
species escape the illusion
the window creates, and like us
can lose their lives in the process.
* * *
Perfumed wax, lavender, lilac, like barber's cologne
That rubs a face and swirls up behind the ears -
When his father cut his hair it was highly nutritious
His heart rested in open air feeding on a kind of worship
Icarus, head down as sharpness cleared his neck of filoplumes
His father moulds his feathery crown, aerodynamic
Icarus is looking for words to say
But is shaved clean, presentable for gods
Full of an everlasting joy
* * *
Finds nothing on TV, his Great Daddy fixing
The airstream across his wings in another room
It is brilliant outside and he gets a whiff of lilac
Or lavender, a familiar aroma and places it -
Barber's cologne that splashes and pats the cheeks
Swirls up behind the ears when Great Daddy's done
With him in the swivel chair
And his neck is clear of filoplumes, his crown swept
Back like feathers, sculpted for wind
* * *
Like a woolly steamer trunk on its end
Beneath a shady tulip tree, crook in hand
A stocky shepherd watches a flock file past some puddles
Reflecting sky, them, and me. Some
Baying here and there, hardly notices the dream
That sputters plummets, splashes down before
You can say Brueghal the Elder, or Wystan Hugh Auden
Or Harvey Silverstein.
* * *
it's simple that most deny
basic life under overturned rock
or grimy roots of a tree
that oozes limbic and wonder there to see
rather they mind their cars, contrive care
that bounds toward pleasure after pleasure
in all possible demeanors our rubs red loves show
how fast we go to laugh and avoid any squeamish measure
so everyday beside unborn bombs we pray
for life and limb to stay just the way they're meant
solid lives with health, wealth and being free
one whole smiling being and not overworry
or other perspectives and the truth
such wondering could bring to light
is the mindful worldly way to live in
yet to die is to recognize
another paradise
beyond the eyes we're given
* * *
Neruda signs false documents
for the killer of Trotsky
a unique and simple black cursive
across watermarked paper
done hundreds of times near mindless
no less poetic, a duty
coda to poems of others dying
in love-clasps
clapping at book launches in Santiago
his signature tings a title page
as the icepick enters
another history, another life
To my knees and divulge secrets to myself
I had no inkling existed at this point in time. It is brazen
To be alive with antiquity dead
And pursue dreams still
As clouds scud, their shapes like sheep
The time to forget has arrived
A sole telephone booth I a saviour
My 911 I shall not want
And the valley here is steely-jawed industrial
Having no shepherds.
- Pastoral, pg. 19
* * *
He says the birds haven't a clue
they come in full tilt, nothing
to tip them off, though God's given them
acute eyesight, hearing that could home in
on a troubled mate miles away
and bam! Smack into the second
floor window, some are simply dazed
and fall on the patio, shaken, rebound
and resume flight
others are killed by the reflection
of familiar trees, grove
sparrow, woodpecker, thrush, no particular
species escape the illusion
the window creates, and like us
can lose their lives in the process.
- House, pg. 25
* * *
Perfumed wax, lavender, lilac, like barber's cologne
That rubs a face and swirls up behind the ears -
When his father cut his hair it was highly nutritious
His heart rested in open air feeding on a kind of worship
Icarus, head down as sharpness cleared his neck of filoplumes
His father moulds his feathery crown, aerodynamic
Icarus is looking for words to say
But is shaved clean, presentable for gods
Full of an everlasting joy
- Icarus Smells, pg. 49
* * *
Finds nothing on TV, his Great Daddy fixing
The airstream across his wings in another room
It is brilliant outside and he gets a whiff of lilac
Or lavender, a familiar aroma and places it -
Barber's cologne that splashes and pats the cheeks
Swirls up behind the ears when Great Daddy's done
With him in the swivel chair
And his neck is clear of filoplumes, his crown swept
Back like feathers, sculpted for wind
- Icarus Fresh and Brilliant, pg. 55
* * *
Like a woolly steamer trunk on its end
Beneath a shady tulip tree, crook in hand
A stocky shepherd watches a flock file past some puddles
Reflecting sky, them, and me. Some
Baying here and there, hardly notices the dream
That sputters plummets, splashes down before
You can say Brueghal the Elder, or Wystan Hugh Auden
Or Harvey Silverstein.
- The Shepherd, pg. 65
* * *
it's simple that most deny
basic life under overturned rock
or grimy roots of a tree
that oozes limbic and wonder there to see
rather they mind their cars, contrive care
that bounds toward pleasure after pleasure
in all possible demeanors our rubs red loves show
how fast we go to laugh and avoid any squeamish measure
so everyday beside unborn bombs we pray
for life and limb to stay just the way they're meant
solid lives with health, wealth and being free
one whole smiling being and not overworry
or other perspectives and the truth
such wondering could bring to light
is the mindful worldly way to live in
yet to die is to recognize
another paradise
beyond the eyes we're given
- Despite All Intentions and Appearances These Days, pg. 73
* * *
Neruda signs false documents
for the killer of Trotsky
a unique and simple black cursive
across watermarked paper
done hundreds of times near mindless
no less poetic, a duty
coda to poems of others dying
in love-clasps
clapping at book launches in Santiago
his signature tings a title page
as the icepick enters
another history, another life
- Belief, pg. 81
Displaying 1 of 1 review