2 posts tagged “blogoriphic”
Read Hoops straight through. It will get late. You will need sleep and you will not put it down. It's addictive like Lahiri, seriously. Major Jackson has given poetry readers the gift of invention within form with his second book of poems, Hoops. In his "Letter to Brooks" he uses rime royal - with a nod toward Auden's epistolary poem to Byron - and a palpable love for his mentor to take on pop culture, poetic elitism, adolescent anti-elitism dragged into adulthood, our political landscape, and "All the turf battles. All the war games."
There is a line in one of Jackson's poems about wealth and being shown things that recalls a Hemingway quip:
"There are two things you can do to help an artist: give him money
and show him stuff." Jackson shows us stuff and he has earned every dollar that the publishing world might want to hand a new poet.
I cannot recommend Major Jackson's Hoops highly enough. It carries the reader like a novel, keeping our American language alive and true. Hoops is a slam dunk.
We reads as a series of diary entries, kind of like a blog on vodka and a slow. Recognizing that it was written in 1922, it still brims with a romanticism that seems tired. Remember, this was a year before Edna St. Vincent Millay and T.S. Elliot shocked the world with fresh poetry. Hemingway would publish In Our Time in 1925. My point is, the writing world was alive and there was little room for the pretentious flitting between experimentation and stale artifice that slog from Zamyatin's yawning Edison. Pages gasp with an asthmatic desperation. At the strongest moments, I comic book characters peek around imagination's restless corners, never human beings. In fact, an ambitious graphic novelist might be able to revive Zamyatin's work.
Zamyatin's cardboard characters, especially his protagonist and narrator D-503, never lift from the ground that they are attempting to rise above. We is of important academic interest if you are attempting to understand the nature of Soviet oppression or the history of dystopic literature. As a work of narrative art, however, it lacks the very thing it fights so hard to defend.