News of the World

News of the World

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by Philip Levine

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A superb new collection from “a great American poet . . . still at work on his almost-song of himself” (The New York Times Book Review).

In both lively prose poems and more formal verse, Philip Levine brings us news from everywhere: from Detroit, where exhausted workers try to find a decent breakfast after the late shift, and HenrySee more details below


A superb new collection from “a great American poet . . . still at work on his almost-song of himself” (The New York Times Book Review).

In both lively prose poems and more formal verse, Philip Levine brings us news from everywhere: from Detroit, where exhausted workers try to find a decent breakfast after the late shift, and Henry Ford, “supremely bored” in his mansion, clocks in at one of his plants . . . from Spain, where a woman sings a song that rises at dawn, like the dust of ages, through an open window . . . from Andorra, where an old Communist can now supply you with anything you want—a French radio, a Cadillac, or, if you have a week, an American film star.

The world of his poetry is one of questionable magic: a typist lives for her only son who will die in a war to come; three boys fish in a river while a fine industrial residue falls on their shoulders. This is a haunted world in which exotic animals travel first class, an immigrant worker in Detroit yearns for the silence of his Siberian exile, and the Western mountains “maintain that huge silence we think of as divine.”

A rich, deeply felt collection from one of our master poets.

From the Hardcover edition.

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Editorial Reviews

Publishers Weekly
Pulitzer-winner Levine invites readers into familiar landscapes—Detroit, gritty America, forests chock-full of truth and beauty, “the shaded woods/ where I go evening after evening/ to converse with tangled roots and vines”—in his 20th books of poems. He continues to romanticize hardscrabble living—pumping well water, working in an auto factory—but this collection is less an update about the current political or social situation than it is news about Levine himself. He writes in an autobiographical mode, in long stanzas that flirt with iambic pentameter, while also encouraging the reader to participate as he describes “An actual place in the actual city/ where we all grew up.” Prose poems treat adventures in far away places (“You may hear that Australia is a continent. I lived there, I know it's an island”) while other poems recall Levine's past: “When my brother came home from war/ he carried his left arm in a black sling/ but assured us most of it was there.” While Levine charts no new territory, fans will happily get what they came for. (Oct.)
Library Journal
In his latest collection, prolific poet Levine ruminates on family, life, and death in the familiar colloquial style that won him the Pulitzer Prize in 1995. With a quiet intimacy, Levine quite literally delivers the news of the world, with tales of haunting mountains, exhausted Detroit workers, and Spanish songstresses. His flirtations with death in both prose poems and formal verse have a weightiness that remains long after you close the book: "I felt bad/ for the little priest: both of us/ he called 'my sons' were failing,/ slipping gracelessly from our lives/ to abandon him to face eternity/ as it came on and on and on." These poems exude a certain melancholia, but Levine's ability to examine expertly the beauty in this sadness keeps them from veering toward the unnecessarily depressing. He can paint even the strange with simple, natural language in a way that's subtly moving, and the nostalgic glow he applies to his memories makes this work the perfect addition to the oeuvre that has come to define his life. VERDICT An integral part of his life's puzzle that Levine, even at 81, is still attempting to piece together; for all readers of contemporary poetry.—Jessica Roy, Library Journal\
From the Publisher
“All the earmarks of a valedictory testament, what with its autumnal ruminations on personal history and its haunted remembrances of things past, yet Levine is too canny a craftsman to settle for dutiful curtain calls, and too much the hard-bitten ironist to fall prey to false nostalgia. If certain obsessions here are bound to strike longtime readers as old news (innocence and experience, manual labor and class struggle), the visceral language that fleshes the poems out still feels hot off the press.” —David Barber, The Boston Globe

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Product Details

Knopf Doubleday Publishing Group
Publication date:
Product dimensions:
6.50(w) x 9.28(h) x 0.49(d)

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We don't see the ocean, not ever, but in July and August when the worst heat seems to rise from the hard clay of this valley, you could be walking through a fig orchard when suddenly the wind cools and for a moment you get a whiff of salt, and in that moment you can almost believe something is waiting beyond the Pacheco Pass,
something massive, irrational, and so powerful even the mountains that rise east of here have no word for it.

You probably think I'm nuts saying the mountains have no word for ocean, but if you live here you begin to believe they know everything.
They maintain that huge silence we think of as divine,
a silence that grows in autumn when snow falls slowly between the pines and the wind dies to less than a whisper and you can barely catch your breath because you're thrilled and terrified.

You have to remember this isn't your land.
It belongs to no one, like the sea you once lived beside and thought was yours. Remember the small boats that bobbed out as the waves rode in, and the men who carved a living from it only to find themselves carved down to nothing. Now you say this is home,
so go ahead, worship the mountains as they dissolve in dust,
wait on the wind, catch a scent of salt, call it our life.


Dusk south of Barcelona, the slopes leading up to the fortress, a city of wooden crates and cardboard shacks staggers up the mountain as the rain runs down, a black river. The final night,
I whisper to no one. A patch of red,
the single moving thing, comes toward me to become the shirt of a young girl,
eleven or twelve. Bare- legged, picking her way to avoid the sharp stones,
she reaches me. Through perfect teeth in her perfect mouth she demands a duro,
one hand held out. Only one duro,
she insists, stamping a naked foot,
browned and filthy on the filthy earth.
When I pay up and turn for home she is beside me laughing as the rain streams down her forehead, her short hair a black cap plastered in place. "A duro! "
she demands again. "Another?" I say.
"Yes, of course," she laughs into the face of the rain, "and after that another."
Even a child knows the meaning of rain:
it is the gift of October, a gift that arrives on time each autumn to darken the makeshift shacks and lighten the hillside with a single splash of color.


Once we were out of Barcelona the road climbed past small farm-
houses hunched down on the gray, chalky hillsides. The last person we saw was a girl in her late teens in a black dress & gray apron carrying a chicken upside down by the claws. She looked up &
smiled. An hour later the land opened into enormous green meadows.
At the frontier a cop asked in guttural Spanish almost as bad as mine why were we going to Andorra. "Tourism," I said. Laughing,
he waved us through. The rock walls of the valley were so abrupt the town was only a single street wide. Blue plumes of smoke ascended straight into the darkening sky. The next morning we found what we'd come for: the perfect radio, French- made,
portable, lightweight, slightly garish with its colored dial &
chromed knobs, inexpensive. "Because of the mountains, reception is poor," the shop owner said, so he tuned in the local Communist station beamed to Spain. "Communist?" I said. Oh yes, they'd come twenty- five years ago to escape the Germans, & they'd stayed.
"Back then," he said, "we were all reds." "And now?" I said. Now he could sell me anything I wanted. "Anything?" He nodded. A
tall, graying man, his face carved down to its essentials. "A Cadillac?"
I said. Yes, of course, he could get on the phone & have it out front— he checked his pocket watch— by four in the afternoon.
"An American film star?" One hand on his unshaved cheek, he gazed upward at the dark beamed ceiling. "That could take a week."

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