Whew. About met my match with this collection. That is, I waded slowly, at times turning back, going over the grounds a second and third time. Can you say "dense"? Rife with allusions and hidden quotes from other sources, too (for once the "Notes" at the back of the collection were not superfluous or narcissistic).
I feel guilty saying I didn't particularly enjoy this as a whole, but happy to say that bits and pieces sung off the page, winking at me. Oh, I reread those parts, too. The parts I not only understood right away but reread as a treat for my eyes and ears, greedy parties when it comes to poetry.
Here's a poem that I cannot format properly (indentations and GR being mortal enemies... hell, indentations and HTML being mortal enemies as well) to give you a flavor of Reeves way with words. I like it best when he plays fast and loose with parts of speech, with personification, with all those things other poets call you on when they read your work unless you're established. In that case, it's OK. (Funny how that works!)
Your Hand To Your Face Blocking the Sun
Because a revelation As the pear tree is a revelation to itself each spring
It sitting in the dead of itself and making something That which we call pear
Though was nothing more than water and a little ache in the branches A moan of white flowers Rocking the green river of a tree until full
Ache A revelation Unaccompanied by the requisite panic
Me along the curve of you A flower's moan So inelegant
It will be mistaken for dirt flung into the eyes A broken door opening Newport knocked and floating on a puddle's gray rose Which is how a man might describe something he loves That will kill him
Is that how we move When we move upon each other
As if whatever is leaving Is the prayer we've been meaning to come to
Uh-huh. You read it and say, "Interesting." Then you reread and try to connect the dots -- poem to title, lines to stanza breaks, meaning to life. And though I may not be the master of the poem, that doesn't mean I cannot enjoy things like "sitting in the dead of itself" and "a little ache in the branches / A moan of white flowers / Rocking the green river of a tree until full".
In the end, I feel a bit like the best barbarian unable to translate the ways of more civilized folk, but still, all hail to the noble savage -- especially when he reads on doggedly till the end.
I feel guilty saying I didn't particularly enjoy this as a whole, but happy to say that bits and pieces sung off the page, winking at me. Oh, I reread those parts, too. The parts I not only understood right away but reread as a treat for my eyes and ears, greedy parties when it comes to poetry.
Here's a poem that I cannot format properly (indentations and GR being mortal enemies... hell, indentations and HTML being mortal enemies as well) to give you a flavor of Reeves way with words. I like it best when he plays fast and loose with parts of speech, with personification, with all those things other poets call you on when they read your work unless you're established. In that case, it's OK. (Funny how that works!)
Your Hand To Your Face Blocking the Sun
Because a revelation
As the pear tree is a revelation to itself each spring
It sitting in the dead of itself and making something
That which we call pear
Though was nothing more than water and a little ache in the branches
A moan of white flowers
Rocking the green river of a tree until full
Ache
A revelation
Unaccompanied by the requisite panic
Me along the curve of you
A flower's moan
So inelegant
It will be mistaken for dirt flung into the eyes
A broken door opening
Newport knocked and floating on a puddle's gray rose
Which is how a man might describe something he loves
That will kill him
Is that how we move
When we move upon each other
As if whatever is leaving
Is the prayer we've been meaning to come to
Uh-huh. You read it and say, "Interesting." Then you reread and try to connect the dots -- poem to title, lines to stanza breaks, meaning to life. And though I may not be the master of the poem, that doesn't mean I cannot enjoy things like "sitting in the dead of itself" and "a little ache in the branches / A moan of white flowers / Rocking the green river of a tree until full".
In the end, I feel a bit like the best barbarian unable to translate the ways of more civilized folk, but still, all hail to the noble savage -- especially when he reads on doggedly till the end.