3 of 5 people found the following review helpful:
3.0 out of 5 stars
Not Critical Enough, January 26, 2009
Unless one is a masochist, which I am not, there is no reward in heaven for one poet reviewing the work of another, particularly when that other is one of our most important, lucid and exacting literary critics, Clive James. "Opal Sunset", his self-selected book, collects his own work from a career of fifty years. Although there are occasional poems in free-form, the great majority are strictly metered and cleverly rhymed. James has probably forgotten more about technical matters than most poets have ever managed to learn. The voice in his poems is a lot like that of Frederick Seidel, world-weary, all-too-knowing, cynical and satiric. As in his prose, James does not suffer fools gladly; the chief problem with the poems is that he rarely suffers at all. The fun is usually at the expense of someone else as in the famously brilliant poem that opens the collection, "The Book of My Enemy Has Been Remaindered." Even this jewel is perhaps one section too long. The great majority of the poems are in four and five line stanzas; the quatrains, especially, are so precise in their rhythm and rhyme that a certain weariness sets in, a sameness that confounds Emerson's and Frost's advice in regard to the meter-making argument; purposeful variation is all but not often enough found here.
The first half of the book contains work from the first 45 years of his career; the second half is devoted to the most recent five years of production! Fortunately, the poems in the new section, from "Status Quo Vadis" (p.122) through "As I See You" (p.204), actually his first published poem used as a bookend, improve the overall effect and mitigate the tedium of tone and structure. "Status Quo Vadis" concludes with a stunner of a stand-alone line: "the breath of life is what actually kills you." There are lovely poems about long-lived love, "Anniversary Serenade" and a double sonnet "Double or Quits", "Fires Burning, Fires Burning" about 9-11 and the death of his mother, poems about his native Australia and the war against the Japanese, and the death of his father in World War II. This attention to his basic humanity, to the tragic dimension of life as well as its humor, saves the collection. The marvelous "Portrait of Man Writing" is a self-conscious meditation on what he should say of the artist who is presently drawing his portrait; it ends with the couplet "Let's break for lunch. What progress have we made?/Ah yes. That's me exactly, I'm afraid."
This is a book well worth dipping into for such flashes of genuine emotion and humility, for the technical lessons to be learned, for the music lavished on ordinary subjects too often beaten by others into lineated prose. James shares both the significant gifts and musty limitations of a poet like Alexander Pope to such a degree that Chris Wiman's blurb, beginning with the observation that James's "poetry has been greatly overshadowed by his prose", may contain within it the ultimate estimate of posterity. A good poet but a profound critic.
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3 of 17 people found the following review helpful:
5.0 out of 5 stars
I Was Impressed, October 17, 2008
I find reviewing poetry to be far more difficult than reviewing either prose or movies, because the medium, like music, translates so unwillingly into the craft of the reviewer. So let me simply leave it at this: I think Mr. James writes nice poems.
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