Curves and Angles: Poems

Curves and Angles: Poems

by Brad Leithauser
     
 

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Brad Leithauser’s “most satisfying collection in years” (Library Journal), a bracing poetic journey that begins in a warm, peopled world and concludes in a cooler and more private place, embracing love of the human and natural world in all its states.


From the Trade Paperback edition.See more details below

Overview

Brad Leithauser’s “most satisfying collection in years” (Library Journal), a bracing poetic journey that begins in a warm, peopled world and concludes in a cooler and more private place, embracing love of the human and natural world in all its states.


From the Trade Paperback edition.

Editorial Reviews

Publishers Weekly
Poised between reserve and sympathy, between limpid pathos and stoic resolve, Leithauser's first book of short poems since The Odd Last Thing She Did (1998) contains some of his strongest lyric work. Leithauser won praise in the 1980s for his attractive revivals of difficult forms. He has since found broader notice with novels in verse and in prose, and as a critic whose interests include musical theater and Scandinavian literature. Here, two well-sculpted poems describe New Year's Day in Iceland ("miles of ice give way in time/ to rock and snow"), and several more pay homage to the playwright and Broadway lyricist Lorenz Hart. In a six-stanza poem about scuba divers, the first thing we see is "a can of Cheez Whiz" whose "cheese or cheez extrudes into the sea/ as a sturdy gold thread." By far the best work, however, occurs in the sequence most indebted to Leithauser's novelistic talents: "A Science Fiction Writer of the Fifties" combines narrative gifts, baby boom nostalgia, ecological worries and a fine sense of stanza and line. Leithauser may not be his generation's most ambitious poet, but at his best he can make old forms sing anew. (Nov.) Copyright 2006 Reed Business Information.
Library Journal
In a return to the lyric mode after his 2003 verse novel Darlington's Fall, Leithauser addresses both animate and inanimate entities with the sparing, narrowed eye of a disciplined but empathic imagist. Wrapped in rhyme, reliable pentameters, and poised syllabics, his painterly appreciations of otherwise ordinary phenomena can conjure the solar system in a deft haiku ("Out of the blind swamp/ Nine moths emerge to circle/ Our kerosene lamp.") or, in a burst of short phrases, trigger the colorful chaos of tropical fish ("...a purple dottyback, then a pink pack/ Of fairy basslets, a bright, black-/ Eyed jack, some green/ And blue parrotfish"). His most inspiring subject is light itself, its evocations of life's recurrent beginnings ("Gently, at a thousand miles per hour,/ The rose border of daybreak races/ Over difficult terrain.") and their bittersweet transience ("Though rippling foliage fills/ the pane, the flush that tints the wall/ will last a week or two, no more."). Readers who feel abandoned by much contemporary poetry will find some comfort here, in what may be Leithauser's most satisfying collection in years. Recommended for public and academic libraries. Fred Muratori, Cornell Univ. Lib., Ithaca, NY Copyright 2006 Reed Business Information.

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Product Details

ISBN-13:
9780307494696
Publisher:
Knopf Doubleday Publishing Group
Publication date:
03/25/2009
Sold by:
Random House
Format:
NOOK Book
Pages:
96
File size:
2 MB

Read an Excerpt

NOT LUNAR EXACTLY
(Detroit, 1948)


New, and entirely new to the neighborhoodÉ
One August day, it came to their own street:
the Nutleys brought home a television!
Nights now, the neighbors began to meet
more often than before, out walking,
walking past the Nutleys, who, on display
behind their picture window, sat frozen
in their chairs, watching their television, which lay
off to the side, just out of view,
so you couldn’t make out what
it was they were watching but only
them watching, the four Nutleys, in a blue
glow that was lunar but
not lunar exactly.


That was the summer we all
watched the Nutleys–no,
we all watched “The Nutleys,”
which was the one great show
of the summer, it ran for weeks,
with its four silent stars
behind glass, until nights went cold
and damp and we turned to our cars
if we ventured out after dark,
and then–three in a row–
the Daleys, the Floods, the Markses
took the plunge, they brought home the glow,
and the Nutleys, suddenly,
belonged to a new community.




FROM HERE TO THERE


There are those great winds on a tear
Over the Great Plains,
Bending the grasses all the way
Down to the roots
And the grasses revealing
A gracefulness in the wind’s fury
You would not otherwise
Have suspected there.

And there’s the wind off the sea
Roiling the thin crowns of the great
Douglas firs on the cragged
Oregon coast, uprooting
Choruses of outraged cries,
As if the trees were unused
To bending, who can weather
Such storms for a century.


And–somewhere between those places,
Needing a break–we climb out stiff
From our endless drive to stand, dwindled,
On a ridge, holding hands,
In what are foothills only because
The neighboring mountains are
So much taller, and there are the breezes,
Contrarily pulled, awakening our faces.




SON

Memory buries its own,
And of what now forever must be
The longest day of his life
What mostly remained was a blur
Under too-bright lights–so he
Could scarcely tell if the things
Sharpest in his mind were
Nothing but fantasies, sewn
Afterwards, out of grief,
And guilt’s imaginings.

Yet it seemed memory called up
(After the interminable birth,
As his finger stroked the arm
Of a child who would not last
Even one whole day
And all of its time on earth
Ministered to by vast
Machines that couldn’t mend the harm
In a single transcription slip
In reams of DNA)


A look so haunted, so
Haunting, he would not confess
(Not even later, to his wife)
How it stayed with him, on him: the slow
Flicker in a watery eye,
The mute call–through all
The exhausted hopefulness
The condemned come to know
In the end–from animal to animal,
Imploring, Please save my life.




NORTH-LOOKING ROOM


In a seldom-entered attic
you force a balky door,
disclosing a room made brilliant
by an orange tree whose branches bear


no fruit but maple leaves;
We’re in New England, after all.
Though rippling foliage fills
the pane, the flush that tints the wall


will last a week or two, no more.


*

And this conception, if consoling,
of a high, untenanted room
lit solely by a tree
houses as well–at least for those


who’d sidestep round the fear
that in the give-and-take of calls
to answer, calls to make,
we lose the light most dim, most clear–


a reprimand no breeze can shake.



OVER LABRADOR


When miles of perfect whiteness
Gave way to a whiteness below
(Snowed-under hills of a cloudlike brightness
Under cloudbanks heaped like snow),


By either light
How fulfilling to contemplate
Domains so evenly claimworthy–
Unpeopled, complete.


From the Hardcover edition.

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