Customer Reviews

Too Much Explanation Can Ruin A Man

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If you like obscure, unintelligible, pseudo-intellectual poetry, stop reading now. Otherwise, this is the best book of poetry I've read in years. Clear and understandable, but masterful in his use of meter, rhyme, and metaphor, Robert Crawford has written a book full of poems that you can enjoy on first reading them, and marvel at all you'll find each time you go back and read them again. Crawford's poetry combines an unerring sense of place with a willingness to explore all the reaches of the time and space: from science to Calvin Coolidge to autumn leaves to aluminum pots and French braids. Don't be fooled by the first level, however; underneath, there's always something more to be discovered, uncovered. But this is a poet who, while exploring all the corners of his world, both light and dark, is always inviting the reader along. This book belongs on your nightstand, to entice, scare or comfort you, depending on what page you open it to.

If Robert Frost were to live in rural New England today, this may be what he'd be writing. "Town Roads," "The Road Agent," "A Row of Stones"-all there in the first few pages-are tributes to this New England sage. Although, I'm not sure "Frostian" is the only way I would classify Crawford's work. He hold strong to the old tradition of meter-something the world of today's poetry is missing (for without a tradition, it cannot be broken). In TOO MUCH EXPLANATION..., Crawford has reminded us that sonnets are not just for the classroom. "French Braids," "Exposed," and "At the Top of the Stairs" keep us grounded in our own familiar realm of erotic romance while retaining the skill of master's gone by. They are both sensual and classic. Furthermore, Crawford's "When Boston Wins the Series" (perhaps his signature work) is simply prophetic-a mantra that paid off when the book went to print.
This is a work that can be appreciated by students and masters alike.

I happen to know Robert Crawford. He teaches and reads here in the Seacoast Region of New Hampshire. I have always admired his essential modesty, his profound appreciation for craft, and his unrelenting pursuit of it. If you're the kind of person who looks at antique furniture and are taken by the way it reveals and conceals the years of training, skill and craftsmanship that went into it, as opposed to how it's going to fit into your entryway or sewing room, or go with the new Persian carpet, Crawford's poetry is for you. It's grace. It's classical form and balance. It's the courage to take on the oldest poetic subjects and themes on, again, with the confidence that something enduring and beautiful will result. (We'll call it the Michelangelo Hypothesis -- why would a man approach a block of marble with a hammer, knowing as much as he did of Greek statuary?) And, incidentally, this book contains the best "Christmas" poem ever, "The Love of One." It's in search of just such gems that I read so much.