This collection of poems by Omaha-based Greg Kosmicki reflects a brilliance that can only be captured by a man who chooses to record those occurrences in life that most people would catalogue as "everyday." Within these poems about work and working, family and living are pieces of wisdom Kosmicki has picked up through his routes as a driver for UPS and through his life experiences as father, husband, son and brother.
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Thanks for the book. A hell of a lot of good stuff there, truly--strong and recognizable and full of right feeling. -- Hayden Carruth
United Parcel in these poems is a capitalist Gulag, and Kosmicki its resident alien. Written on packages and routing slips, written on the wind, Greg's poems steal time from the daily exile and solitary confinement of his job. Always the fear lives in him, that he will become too tired to care, too blind to see . . . Two desperations then, inform these poems. The panic to fulfill one's duties, to keep to the murderous schedule--bringing the paycheck home, and that other desperation--not to die as a poet. To heed the small things, little birds in the road--crushed against the windshield, prarie dogs along the route, not yet poisoned by efficient ranchers . . . Even the smallest poems here resonate within the matrix--Greg's son Mark off on his first unassisted bike ride--trying to find that difficult balance--while his father reflects on his own struggles . . . In form various, but always urgent--as if not written at all but spoken--made furious by the headlong rush of the road, these poems startle and amaze. -- Greg Kuzma, Best Cellar Press
United Parcel in these poems is a capitalist Gulag, and Kosmicki its resident alien. Written on packages and routing slips, written on the wind, Greg's poems steal time from the daily exile and solitary confinement of his job. Always the fear lives in him, that he will become too tired to care, too blind to see . . . Two desperations then, inform these poems. The panic to fulfill one's duties, to keep to the murderous schedule--bringing the paycheck home, and that other desperation--not to die as a poet. To heed the small things, little birds in the road--crushed against the windshield, prarie dogs along the route, not yet poisoned by efficient ranchers . . . Even the smallest poems here resonate within the matrix--Greg's son Mark off on his first unassisted bike ride--trying to find that difficult balance--while his father reflects on his own struggles . . . In form various, but always urgent--as if not written at all but spoken--made furious by the headlong rush of the road, these poems startle and amaze. -- Greg Kuzma, Best Cellar Press
About the Author
Greg Kosmicki was born in 1949 in Alliance, Nebraska, and grew up on a wheat farm. His first collection of poems, How Things Happen, a fine letterpress edition, was published in 1997 by bradypress. He and his wife Debbie both work in the social service field. They have three children. Greg was a member of the Teamsters when he worked at UPS, and is currently a member of NAPE/AFSCME, the Nebraska branch of a national public service employees union, where he serves as a shop steward.
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3 of 3 people found the following review helpful:
5.0 out of 5 stars
Midwest Book Review - poetic thoughts of a working man,
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This review is from: Nobody Lives Here Who Saw This Sky (Paperback)
In the foreword, Nebraska poet and educator Greg Kuzma states that "...the human spirit runs loose still in the world...." Those few words express perfectly the writings of Greg Kosmicki. He's a poet who puts his heart into words. He writes about his children, his work, the land, and longs for simple times when man understood his place in the world. As poet, Kosmicki does not become "...too tired to care too blind to see.", despite the fact that his work as a UPS driver is slowly draining him dry.In "Driving", he speaks of "...laughing desperate men." In "First Time on a Time Clock" he documents such desperation clearly without mincing words, shown here in an excerpt:. Felt like I was being castrated and having a current of a thousand volts Like a man who has to stand by and witness the death of his best friend The slow inevitable sliding climb toward death had begun I ran over a bullsnake today, under a prairie grass sky I couldn't stop. under a meadowlark sky... ...for the next hour, under a killdeer sky about that snake under a ruffled grouse sky... ...and dammit, under a dragonfly sky... Greg Kosmicki tells it like it is. All but the luckiest among us are forced to toil at jobs that kill our creativity and hope. That the heart of this poet survived to share his thoughts with readers is a gift.
2 of 2 people found the following review helpful:
5.0 out of 5 stars
Nobody Has Lived Until They Have Read This Book,
This review is from: Nobody Lives Here Who Saw This Sky (Paperback)
This book is a brave and honest work, the work of a father who makes the move to quit his job as a UPS driver and live with the consequences. Moving, well-written, funny and touching, Nobody Lives Here. . .proves that the small presses still produce the best poetry. If you like Hayden Carruth or the softer poems of Charles Bukowski, this book is for you.
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