From Publishers Weekly
Through reviews in the
New Yorker, the
New Republic and elsewhere, Kirsch (
The Wounded Surgeon) has fast become one of the country's best-known poetry critics, advocating self-control, formal mastery, rational argument and attention to the past, and praising poets from T.S. Eliot to Anthony Hecht to Frederick Seidel. Kirsch's first book of poems struck many readers as apprentice work: this second effort—composed almost entirely of 16-line sonnets (like George Meredith's)—comes far closer to the ideals set forth in his prose. Kirsch's subjects include New York City (where he lives) before and after 9/11; other poets (Wordsworth, Larkin, Palgrave's Golden Treasury); hip-hop's favorite furrier; a pet adoption booth; and the wars in Afghanistan and Iraq, which Kirsch views with grim and complicated regret: jet contrails at JFK airport, in one powerful sonnet, are advertisements in the sky/ For a new kind of combat that requires/ Us only not to notice and ask why. An interlude of stanzaic poems built around lines from the medieval writer Boethius saves the book from formal monotony and excess topicality. These efforts—highbrow deliberation in verse—are a lot like Hecht, and good enough to stand, poem by poem, on their own.
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In his readable and intelligent second collection, Kirsch is as formally careful and as witty as he was in his prizewinning debut, The Thousand Wells (2002). Fortunately, he is also even less personal—he would rather show off his “chops” than his wounds—and even more topical. All the poems, except for eight placed in the center of the book that react to passages in Boethius’ sixth-century Consolation of Philosophy, consist of four quatrains, rhymed (loosely) ABAB, run together to make up 16-line iambic pentameter paragraphs. Nearly every paragraph comments on a phenomenon, common or special, of urban life, with New York usually the city in question. Kirsch has a keen eye for contradiction and the knack for visualization to make discrepancies vivid, so that his sad socioreligious observations about a sing-along Messiah in Los Angeles’ Disney Hall, and the even sadder lesson in social insecurity represented by the juxtaposed big windows and exterior concrete barriers of a Jewish community center, are deeply affecting. --Ray Olson