From Kirkus Reviews
The opening lines of the first poem in St.Johns sixth volume introduce his odd and murky intentions: The figure you/Remains the speculative whip of my aesthetic. Throughout this repetitive collection, St. John (Univ. of So. Cal. professor) sacrifices clarity for sultry ambiencehis uncertain diction fails to support the very definition of love he hopes to record. Instead, his poems trade in romantic banalities and lame sententiousness (Peace is where you find it); his oily eroticism, however cinematic in style, reads like scenes from a cheap European soft-core movie, with the titilating parts cut out. St Johns lovers are all anticipation and post-coital sadness (Streaks of sweat on satin sheets); his sexual vocabulary leaves too much to the imagination, his preferred adjectives being naked, nude, and bare. In Two, a tepid bit of sapphism, the poet lingers on scarlet nipples and pubic hair with a wild fox blaze, but more typically St. John walks especially unromantic streets and, elsewhere, smells a sexual musk. St. Johns poems lack polish and blend together in metaphoric heaps of fog and moisture, mirrors and dreams, sunlight and smoke, and, yes, moon and stars. A few poems of singular style emerge from the fetid muck: Memphis smartly extends the conceit of Elvis as a classical god, much in the way Chevalier DOr imagines an aging rock star as a medieval troubadour. The clever rhymes of Night force a certain sharpness that otherwise eludes this bard of greeting-card desire. --
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Review
"Confessionally breathless, the syntax of these poems seems not spontaneous but rather like an exhalation suppressed....St. John solidifies his growing reputation... and becomes, more than before, the wandering, soulful troubadour of whom he writes." --"Publishers Weekly."