You never know what to expect from Ron Padgett, a poet full of delightful surprises and discoveries. This witty new collection glides from comic to elegiac to lyrical, in celebrations of fairy tales, friendship, cubism, birds, lullabies, spirituality, Dutch painting, and the magic of everyday life, all rendered in artful conversational American.
National author tour to include New York, San Francisco, Minneapolis/St. Paul, Denver, and Milwaukee
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Ron Padgett was born in Tulsa in 1942. With Ted Berrigan and others, Padgett reinvented the New York School of poetry in the mid-1960s. Also a distinguished translator of modern French poetry, he has published 15 books of his own, including Great Balls of Fire , and has been honored by a Guggenheim and an American Academy of Arts and Letters poetry award. Padgett lives in New York City.
Great Balls of Fire
TP $8.95 0-918273-80-3 CUSA
|Publisher:||Coffee House Press|
|Product dimensions:||7.00(w) x 9.90(h) x 0.20(d)|
About the Author
Ron Padgett, as Peter Gizzi says, is "a thoroughly American poet, coming sideways out of Whitman, Williams and New York Pop with a Tulsa twist." His poetry has been translated into over a dozen languages and has appeared in The Norton Anthology of Postmodern American Poetry, The Oxford Book of American Poetry, and on Garrison Keillor's Writer's Almanac.
Read an Excerpt
You Never KnowPOEMS
By RON PADGETT
COFFEE HOUSE PRESSCopyright © 2001 Ron Padgett
All right reserved.
Chapter OneMorning Who is here with me? My mother and an Indian man. (I am writing this in the past.) The Indian man is not a man, but a wooden statue just outside the limits of wood. My mother is made of mother. She touches the wood with her eyes and the eyes of the statue turn to hers, that is, become hers. (I am not dreaming. I haven't even been born yet.) There is a cloud in the sky. My father is inside the cloud, asleep. When he wakes up, he will want coffee and a smoke. My mother will set fire to the Indian and from deep inside her body I will tell her to start the coffee, for even now I hear my father's breathing change. Glow When I wake up earlier than you and you are turned to face me, face on the pillow and hair spread around, I take a chance and stare at you, amazed in love and afraid that you might open your eyes and have the daylights scared out of you. But maybe with the daylights gone you'd see how much my chest and head implode for you, their voices trapped inside like unborn children fearing they will never see the light of day. The opening in the wall now dimly glows its rainy blue and gray. I tie my shoes and go downstairs to put the coffee on. To Myself And another thing. This same window I looked out of how many years agoand heard my future in the form of car tires hissing against pavement and now read of it in a poem written that night I had on an old bathrobe black and gray and white thick heavy cotton out of a Thirties movie and at the bottom of which my legs stuck out with wool socks on feet that shuffled me over to the window that had raindrops all over it and shuffled me back to my desk to write that poem, feeling moved by the height of the quiet waiting, an animal in the dark wanting to sing in English. Advice to Young Writers One of the things I've repeated to writing students is that they should write when they don't feel like writing, just sit down and start, and when it doesn't go very well, to press on then, to get to that one thing you'd otherwise never find. What I forgot to mention was that this is just a writing technique, that you could also be out mowing the lawn, where, if you bring your mind to it, you'll also eventually come to something unexpected ("The robin he hunts and pecks"), or watching the "Farm News" on which a large man is referring to the "Greater Massachusetts area." It's alright, students, not to write. Do whatever you want. As long as you find that unexpected something, or even if you don't. The Missing Lips In the flower garden behind the cottage whose foundation rests in the gentle hills of Sussex, England, ca. 1920, a small black-and-white terrier is writhing around on the lawn and snorting in joy, snorting because he's had the urge to writhe and snort under the blue sunny sky, then trot off into the shade and plunk down on crossed paws and wait for Marian to come home from school, little Marian who feeds him treats and kisses him on what would be his lips if he had any!
Excerpted from You Never Know by RON PADGETT Copyright © 2001 by Ron Padgett
Excerpted by permission. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.