“Unlike too many poets who tumble into print at the first twitch of feeling, Michael Ryan takes time to listen to himself, and such listening contributes immeasurably to the subtlety of his address to the reader . . . [He] reminds us on every page that poems can be about lives, and about them in ways most urgent and delicate.” —William H. Pritchard, The Nation
“The twin ancient powers of poetry are story and song,” Michael Ryan said in a recent interview. “I like a lot of both.” And both are here in This Morning in glorious abundance: graceful complex narratives and tight formal lyrics, edgy humor, affecting music, and insistent clarity always in the service of the heart. He can be deeply funny and extremely moving, often at the same time. No other living poet possesses Ryan’s range of tone and technique in rendering the great subjects of art and life: sex, mortality, loss, and love (both conjugal and paternal). Even his most apparently autobiographical writing penetrates to the universal subject within it. Like Dickinson in her poetry, his personal life interests him primarily as an instance of human life. His artistic discipline is thus a spiritual discipline, and the vital spirit infusing these poems rises from the depths of isolation transformed by the joy of loving other people persistently and generously. This Morning is the work of a contemporary American master.
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About the Author
Michael Ryan is the author of four volumes of poetry, two memoirs, and a collection of essays. He is a professor of English and creative writing at the University of California, Irvine, where he lives with his wife and daughter.
Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.
SIXTIETH-BIRTHDAY DINNER
If in the men’s room of our favorite restaurant
while blissfully pissing riserva spumante
I punch the wall because I am so old,
I promise not to punch too carelessly.
Our friend Franco cooks all night and day
to transform blood and bones to osso buco.
He shouldn’t have to clean them off his wall
or worry that a customer gone cuckoo
has mushed his knuckles like a slugger
whose steroid dosage needs a little tweaking.
My life with you has been beyond beyond
and there’s nothing beyond it I’m seeking.
I just don’t want to leave it, and I am
with every silken bite of tiramisu.
I wouldn’t mind being dead
if I could still be with you.
DAREDEVIL
Although he’s only seven, you can pick him out
from other first-graders: he’s the one wearing
a smirk that says, “What are you afraid of?”
maybe also to himself, if he already suspects his fear
won’t ever be crushed no matter what he does.
But he’s got to try. He snatches spiders bare-fingered
to wave in girls’ faces, bites a worm in half
dangling the two ends from his mouth like fangs,
somersault-dismounts from the jungle gym
the other kids climb off of when he climbs on,
and when he lands unhurt there’s that smirk again
that mocks us for our cowardice.
Don’t hate him for it. It is his only happiness.
A ROUND
Where am I going? The grave.
Who am I being? The slave.
What am I leaving? The fun.
Who will be grieving? No one.
How can I touch you? No way.
Will I ever reach you? Someday.
Why do I need you? Ho ho.
Where will I meet you? You know.
MY YOUNG MOTHER
What she couldn’t give me
she gave me those long nights
she sat up with me feverish
and sweating in my sleep
when I had no idea whatsoever
what she had to do to suffer
the pain her body dealt her
to assuage the pain in mine.
That was a noble privacy —
her mothering as a practice of patience.
How deeply it must have stretched her
to watch me all night with her nerves
crying for rest while my fever
spiked under the washcloths
she passed between my forehead
and her dishpan filled with ice.
That was a noble privacy.
But even then there was so much
unsayable between us,
and why this was now looks so
ludicrous in its old costume of shame
that I wish not that she had just
said it but that I hadn’t been
so furious she couldn’t.
HAPPY ANNIVERSARY
The jolt that opened me to you
and shook me to my toes
needs no implanted seismograph
to read how deep it goes
because it’s still rattling me
into this surprise
that the real dream begins
when I open my eyes
to see you so improbably here
and so entirely true
with all our random ducks lined up
for me to marry you
quacking a glorious Gloria
(transcribed into Duck)
to sexy earthy unnerving love
and astonishing good luck.
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Customer Reviews
On attribute of his that is particularly unique and refreshing is his ability to take a subject that is loaded with historic response and switch the emphasis so that the reader takes a different journey with him. For example, in his poem DACHAU we feel ready to revisit the horrors of the camps, but instead the port simply walks though the little village where the inhabitants are more engaged with life as it is now. He inserts the following: 'It means humans can do anything/to one another and go on living' and then he reflects on reading about Iraq and Guantánamo tortures and his subtle point is made.... Read more ›
The thing with poetry is that it's truly a personal experience. One reader may connect with a certain turn of phrase whereas another might consider it trite. And when I read poetry, I try to rate it on its own merits rather than saying one poet or poem is like another, so it might help to know what I look for in poetry.
I prefer poetry that has a steady underlying and unmistakable heartbeat, not necessarily achieved through lyricism, but through syntactical choices. This draws me into the poem. That is where some of Ryan's poems lost me--they had what I'd call chronic cardiac arrhythmia. In some instances it worked for the poem--this slight devation in rhythm--to bring attention to a particular point or theme. But it didn't work in others.
Issues of rhythm aside, I also enjoy lyricism and wordplay. Ryan was masterful at painting a scene and a moment with broad brush strokes as in 'Melanoma Clinic Infusion Center Waiting Area' and 'Here I Am'. A few of his poems were thought-provoking like 'In the Mirror' and clever like 'Mug' and poingnant like 'My Young Mother'. Though a few other poems did graze the surface of gratuitous vulgarity (which is where I say that people either annoyed by or who would rather avoid profanity should skip this collection).... Read more ›
ODD MOMENT
'live your values' said a voice
that wasn't a voice at all.
although I heard it on the phone
when I picked up the phone to call
my mother, who died
six months ago.
What was I thinking of?
I know
she's dead. I touched her hands
(a knuckle, really - and very lightly)
as she lay in the silk-lined box.
I absolutely
couldn't kiss her sunken face goodbye
as others were able to.
After I knelt near her a while,
there was nothing else to do
because she needed nothing form me.
How can a life be 'done'?
Done also what life was to her
alone, which no one
else can comprehend,
even (or especially) her son.
Is this why I forgot she's dead
and picked up the phone
to punch in her number
believing she'd answer,
and my brain said what she'd say
to me? Is she not done with me?
This is a formidable piece and a meditation on mortality which I will certainly never forget. Though I admittedly prefer poetry from the aether as they say, I will be on the lookout for what Michael Ryan does in the future.
