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Overview
David Young, the distinguished poet and translator, offers us a gorgeous cycle of poems attuned to the Midwestern seasons—to weather both emotional and actual. A writer of thrilling invention and humanity, Young beckons the reader into an effortless proximity with the fox at the field’s edge, with the chattering crow and the startling first daffodils of spring. In his tour of both exterior and interior landscapes, the poet scatters his father’s ashes and remembers losing his wife, Chloe, to cancer, a loss at times still fresh after several decades; pays homage to the wisdom of the Chinese masters whose aesthetic has helped shape his own; and reflects on the gladdening qualities of a walk in a snowstorm with his black labrador, Nemo:and in this snowfall that I should detest,
late March and early April, I’m still rapt to see his coat so constellated, starred, re-starred,
making a comic cosmos I can love.
Young’s expert shaping of this world in which, as he writes, “We’re never going to get God right. But we / learn to love all our failures on the way,” becomes for the reader a fresh experience of life’s mysterious goodness and of the abundant pleasure of the language that embodies it.
Synopsis
David Young, the distinguished poet and translator, offers us a gorgeous cycle of poems attuned to the Midwestern seasons—to weather both emotional and actual. A writer of thrilling invention and humanity, Young beckons the reader into an effortless proximity with the fox at the field’s edge, with the chattering crow and the startling first daffodils of spring. In his tour of both exterior and interior landscapes, the poet scatters his father’s ashes and remembers losing his wife, Chloe, to cancer, a loss at times still fresh after several decades; pays homage to the wisdom of the Chinese masters whose aesthetic has helped shape his own; and reflects on the gladdening qualities of a walk in a snowstorm with his black labrador, Nemo:
and in this snowfall that I should detest,
late March and early April, I’m still rapt to see his coat so constellated, starred, re-starred,
making a comic cosmos I can love.
Young’s expert shaping of this world in which, as he writes, “We’re never going to get God right. But we / learn to love all our failures on the way,” becomes for the reader a fresh experience of life’s mysterious goodness and of the abundant pleasure of the language that embodies it.
Library Journal
In his tenth volume, Ohio poet Young (English, Oberlin Coll.) works in a variety of forms and styles, each of them well crafted, though the less traditional ones aren't as accessible and will likely not appeal to casual readers. Young's strength lies in his meditative lyrics; his voice is personal, gentle, unassuming, and experienced. The influence of the ancient Chinese masters on his outlook and writing is present but not overpowering, especially in lines like "We're never going to get God right. But we/ learn to love all our failures on the way." The title poem is especially delightful, with its central image of Young walking with his black labrador, "rapt/ to see his coat so constellated, starred, re-starred,/ making a coming cosmos I can love." Throughout, controlled emotion helps avoid sentimentality, as in these lines on his father's death: "and if the myths have got it right for once,/ he turns to find a welcome somewhere else,/ to touch my mother's face and make her smile." Recommended for large poetry collections and for all collections of Midwest poetry.-Michael Kriesel, Aniwa, WI Copyright 2005 Reed Business Information.