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The Talking Day Paperback – January 15, 2013
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His perceptions can be transmitted with considered brevity as in the following:
Shadow of him, next to shadow of a dog.
The rest of light waits somewhere he's been to
And never thought he'd have.
Here in beyond - a little - the middle of his life.
He knows what happened.
He asked for love.
That was his first mistake.
Your story about your brother and his image
of God: rubber glitter of what got left when the shavings
from a pencil eraser's drawing of the sun and 10 or so
of its rays were blown away - meant he could see already
the parable of effect as I see it now after the reading
and lights for the reader: myself down here
in my fifties after a life of half remembered music listening more closely
whenever a story is this intricate, this beautiful, this fully laid down.
I wish I looked a little better, but my soul has arrived. At last.
Yes, Michael Klein can address death and loss and return to the life we who remain are all living and never allow his grasp on where he is, where we are to wander. He can also bring before our eyes the smiles and the joys and well as the senseless inexplicable tragedies we encounter.Read more ›
Obviously, from what I know now, I should have dived right in. This is a well known gay poet, with a strong track record that spreads over the last 25 years. His style is even handed, mature. He knows to wrap his work in the minutiae of the everyday, to pull the reader into the "conspiracy of letters" with him. The trap having been set and sprung, he turns out to be a passionate and compassionate huntsman, revealing the spirit of his work to be the sorts of abstracts and conjectures lesser poets are warned against. I think the sum total of his craft is trust. I trust him to say anything. And he trusts me.
I am particularly glad for the poem, "What it was like to have written." This a perfect summary of the connundrum of all poets I've worked with, and of all poets I've enjoyed as a reader. In a step away from the strong narrative of his other poems, he tackles the question of who, in a poem, is the writer, and to whom is that writer addressing the poem. Is it literally autobiographical, about me and you? Or is it purely imaginative? He writes the poem as a beautiful knot, which is what the problem is, always turning on "always" "isn't always" "unless of course" "some other examples" and such which complicate things--just as the writer's life is complicated.
My gratitude to this poet for sharing himself, and for Sibling Rivalry Press for sharing his writing.