From Publishers Weekly
Serious readers of contemporary poetry who agreed on nothing else could agree to admire Thom Gunn. When Gunn died, age 75, in 2004, critics in his native England remembered a tough young writer who gained fast fame in the 1950s, whose cool pentameters praised motorcycles and Elvis; Americans remembered the certainly learned, and yet perpetually youthful poet who made San Francisco his permanent home, a celebrant of gay life in the 1970s, and an elegist of HIV and AIDS in the 1990s, his extreme topics subjected to remarkable formal control. Kleinzahler (Sleeping It Off in Rapid City)-another San Francisco writer, and a friend of Gunn's for decades-has put together a slender, effective selection, from early set pieces ("On the Move") to midcareer retrospectives like "Autobiography" ("The sniff of the real, that's/ what I'd want to get") through the valedictory poems of Boss Cupid (2000), with its long-delayed, careful response to Gunn's mother's suicide. Gunn "became more adventurous as he grew older," says Kleinzahler's avid introduction, and the whole of the poems bear him out. The introduction, and the choice among poems, emphasizes Gunn's adventurous range in technique-quatrains, trimeter stanzas, meticulous free verse, and so on-more than it shows his sometimes adventurous life: Gunn wrote of dance clubs, street protests, drugs, and sex, but also about grief, care and personal loyalty. Though the volume seems too brief, the whole of Gunn's power shines through. He could find many more readers now.
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*Starred Review* Hailed as one of the most promising English poets of his generation for his first collection, Fighting Terms (1954), Gunn fell off the British poetical map after his only slightly less well-received follow-up, The Sense of Movement (1957). By then, he had removed himself physically from his homeland to San Francisco, where he lived out his life, slowly becoming the most important gay poet in English of the twentieth century. Editor Kleinzahler notes Gunn’s splash debut and peremptory early dismissal but demonstrates that Gunn’s work steadily improved and never diminished. He continued to emulate the elegance of the Elizabethan lyric, the plain style of Ben Jonson, Baudelaire’s interest in the urban demimonde, and the devotion to honesty and art of his American teacher, Yvor Winters (Gunn published a superb selection of Winters in 2003). While he kept his personality out of the poems—I in them is an observer, more empathic as the years go by—he never parsed his feelings but described what his senses told him so as to vividly conjure the moment and its significance. He became a nonpareil poet of death in the midst of life, and the selections here from The Man with Night Sweats (1992) outweigh the rest of the literature about AIDS, in particular. He is also a great poet of love (read “Touch”) and more. --Ray Olson