Poetry and About Poetry

The Dancing Bears by W.S. Merwin My rating: 2 of 5 stars While I can see what the young Merwin was trying to do here, with real or imagined myth and folklore, the poems seem precious, the language stilted and artificially "poetic" and in all I am left cold. View all my reviews

domina Un/blued by Ruth Ellen Kocher My rating: 3 of 5 stars In the anti-aesthetic shatter of the post-post-post, any art that is at all representational, any language that is at all eloquent, any verse that is at all unified is at best suspect, and at worst disrespected. In the best poems in this collection, Kocher makes good use of the shatter to unveil the slave/dominant relationship, whether individual or societal. Perhaps despite herself, some lines approach a kind of eloquence. Then there are “Un/blued” which repeats E/empire empire Empire over and over in three columns. I get it. I get it. I get it. The extravagant use of white space mostly works to convey the shatter as well. Such use can be mere laziness, but that does not seem so here. The theme of domination/slavery also mostly works, approaching a versified “Fifty Shades” but not falling into it. Sometimes the fragmentation of dialogue conveys the shatter. Other times it seems pseudo-Wasteland. All in all, I would argue th

domina Un/blued by Ruth Ellen Kocher My rating: 3 of 5 stars In the anti-aesthetic shatter of the post-post-post, any art that is at all representational, any language that is at all eloquent, any verse that is at all unified is at best suspect, and at worst disrespected. In the best poems in this collection, Kocher makes good use of the shatter to unveil the slave/dominant relationship, whether individual or societal. Perhaps despite herself, some lines approach a kind of eloquence. Then there are “Un/blued” which repeats E/empire empire Empire over and over in three columns. I get it. I get it. I get it. The extravagant use of white space mostly works to convey the shatter as well. Such use can be mere laziness, but that does not seem so here. The theme of domination/slavery also mostly works, approaching a versified “Fifty Shades” but not falling into it. Sometimes the fragmentation of dialogue conveys the shatter. Other times it seems pseudo-Wasteland. All in all, I would argue

New Collected Poems by Wendell Berry My rating: 4 of 5 stars Wendell Berry is one of the more under-rated poets of the last 50 years. His new collection of his best over that time demonstrates time and again his deep connection with the land, his profound but complex religious faith, and his lyrical ear. His poems can be read and appreciated by those who regularly read verse and those who seldom do. That accessibility and his impatience with artifice in poetry or politics may suggest why some in the academic world ignore or disparage his writing. The later collections are not as strong as those from 1994 and before. His elegies, especially the one for his grandfather, are haunting and universal. I highly recommend living with this collection for a while. View all my reviews

New Collected Poems by Wendell Berry My rating: 4 of 5 stars Wendell Berry is one of the more under-rated poets of the last 50 years. His new collection of his best over that time demonstrates time and again his deep connection with the land, his profound but complex religious faith, and his lyrical ear. His poems can be read and appreciated by those who regularly read verse and those who seldom do. That accessibility and his impatience with artifice in poetry or politics may suggest why some in the academic world ignore or disparage his writing. The later collections are not as strong as those from 1994 and before. His elegies, especially the one for his grandfather, are haunting and universal. I highly recommend living with this collection for a while. View all my reviews

Check here from August 30 to September 3 for specials on my books this weekend: http://www.amazon.com/David-Sam/e/B00K82RUTY

Check here from August 30 to September 3 for specials on my books this weekend: http://www.amazon.com/David-Sam/e/B00K82RUTY

Watch for a “Labor Day Special” on my two books Aug 31 to Sept 5. Check back at the following sites: http://www.davidanthonysam.com/bookstore/ http://www.amazon.com/David-Sam/e/B00K82RUTY/ref=sr_ntt_srch_lnk_1?qid=1408550476&sr=1-1 http://www.barnesandnoble.com/c/david-anthony-sam http://www.indiebound.org/search/apachesolr_search?author_filter=Sam%2C+David+Anthony

Watch for a "Labor Day Special" on my two books Aug 31 to Sept 5. Check back at the following sites: http://www.davidanthonysam.com/bookstore/ http://www.amazon.com/David-Sam/e/B00K82RUTY/ref=sr_ntt_srch_lnk_1?qid=1408550476&sr=1-1 http://www.barnesandnoble.com/c/david-anthony-sam http://www.indiebound.org/search/apachesolr_search?author_filter=Sam%2C+David+Anthony

This poem, from Memories in Clay, Dreams of Wolves,  is often requested when I do a public reading: Momentum   The rock flew from his hand               as if it willed flight                         out of its own silent matter.   The rock flew as if envious               of the robin sailing sky                         into the just blossomed locust.   The rock flew effortlessly,               impelled by something in the boy                          that sought the bird’s flight      and, not being able to have it,               sought to negate the pulse                         of life in the bird’s wings.   The rock flew with a dark grace,               its arc mimicking the bird’s.                         The boy’s arm was insincere   and had never thrown a ball straight               into an open mitt or past a waiting batter,                         had never found the mark when   they gathered together to smash               brown bottles floating in the creek.          

This poem, from Memories in Clay, Dreams of Wolves,  is often requested when I do a public reading: Momentum   The rock flew from his hand               as if it willed flight                         out of its own silent matter.   The rock flew as if envious               of the robin sailing sky                         into the just blossomed locust.   The rock flew effortlessly,               impelled by something in the boy                          that sought the bird's flight      and, not being able to have it,               sought to negate the pulse                         of life in the bird's wings.   The rock flew with a dark grace,               its arc mimicking the bird's.                         The boy's arm was insincere   and had never thrown a ball straight               into an open mitt or past a waiting batter,                         had never found the mark when   they gathered toge

Mountain Interval by Robert Frost My rating: 4 of 5 stars Frost is one of the few great poets who can write narrative verse, including conversation, and have it work both as story and as verse. This collection is held together by a theme of the relationship between humans, each other, and the natural world. There is cruelty, often unintentional or unknowing. But there is beauty in the intersection and the conflicts that result. “The Road Not Taken” leaves its ambiguous ending hanging there: is it celebration, regret, or is it a facile narrator missing his own point? And in “Snow” the complexities of human feelings swirl with the storm that challenges Meserve to heroism or is it foolishness, or is it love for his wife? Frost has often been underestimated, more by his fans than by some post-modernists who seem to loathe his writing. This collection bears rereading and savoring for its depths. View all my reviews

Mountain Interval by Robert Frost My rating: 4 of 5 stars Frost is one of the few great poets who can write narrative verse, including conversation, and have it work both as story and as verse. This collection is held together by a theme of the relationship between humans, each other, and the natural world. There is cruelty, often unintentional or unknowing. But there is beauty in the intersection and the conflicts that result. "The Road Not Taken" leaves its ambiguous ending hanging there: is it celebration, regret, or is it a facile narrator missing his own point? And in "Snow" the complexities of human feelings swirl with the storm that challenges Meserve to heroism or is it foolishness, or is it love for his wife? Frost has often been underestimated, more by his fans than by some post-modernists who seem to loathe his writing. This collection bears rereading and savoring for its depths. View all my reviews

You can watch my reading of  “Momentum” from “Memories in Clay, Dreams of Wolves” at Culpeper’s Raven’s Nest Cofffeehouse on July 11, 2014 on my website: http://www.davidanthonysam.com/audio-video-photo/ or on Youtube: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eT_1NJmwGaI

You can watch my reading of  “Momentum” from “Memories in Clay, Dreams of Wolves” at Culpeper’s Raven’s Nest Cofffeehouse on July 11, 2014 on my website: http://www.davidanthonysam.com/audio-video-photo/ or on Youtube: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eT_1NJmwGaI

My next poetry reading and book signing is scheduled for September 2, 2014 from 5:30pm at the Arts Center of Orange , VA. Hope to see you there.

My next poetry reading and book signing is scheduled for September 2, 2014 from 5:30pm at the Arts Center of Orange , VA. Hope to see you there.

Space, in Chains by Laura Kasischke My rating: 4 of 5 stars An excellent collection by Laura Kasischke with many fine lines and poems. There are moments where the collection lags with a few uneven spots, but Kasischke always redeems the waiting on the next page or two. Some of the parts that struck me, some for their elogquence, some for their simplicity: “A girl in a bed trying to tune the AM radio to the voices of the dead.” “… the soldiers marching across some flowery field in France bear their own soft pottery in their arms—heart, lung, abdomen.” “as if the worship of a thing might be the thing that breaks it.” “The wind has toppled the telescope over onto the lawn: So much for stars. Your brief shot at the universe, gone.” “Bright splash of blood on the kitchen floor. Astonishing red. (All that brightness inside me?)” “And my father ringing the bell for the nurse in the night, and then not even the bell. Ringing the quiet. Waiting in the silence” “Believable, chronological, but s

Space, in Chains by Laura Kasischke My rating: 4 of 5 stars An excellent collection by Laura Kasischke with many fine lines and poems. There are moments where the collection lags with a few uneven spots, but Kasischke always redeems the waiting on the next page or two. Some of the parts that struck me, some for their elogquence, some for their simplicity: "A girl in a bed trying to tune the AM radio to the voices of the dead." "... the soldiers marching across some flowery field in France bear their own soft pottery in their arms—heart, lung, abdomen." "as if the worship of a thing might be the thing that breaks it." "The wind has toppled the telescope over onto the lawn: So much for stars. Your brief shot at the universe, gone." "Bright splash of blood on the kitchen floor. Astonishing red. (All that brightness inside me?)" "And my father ringing the bell for the nurse in the night, and then not even the bell. Ringing the quiet

I enjoyed reading at the Rotary Club of Orange VA for my fellow Rotarians. And thanks to those who purchased copies of my two books, including Linda Miller, (pictured). This was the poem I finished with today, from Memories in Clay, Dreams of Wolves : Wearing the Abyss “When you look too long into an abyss, the abyss looks into you.” – Nietzsche I am become hurricane, whirling manifestation of the abyss I too long look into. I wear whorls in my bloodstream. I hear winds in my earpulse. I am made of water and wild air. In the end, I dissipate across the wide plains in rain, brief flashes, and long echoes.

I enjoyed reading at the Rotary Club of Orange VA for my fellow Rotarians. And thanks to those who purchased copies of my two books, including Linda Miller, (pictured). This was the poem I finished with today, from Memories in Clay, Dreams of Wolves : Wearing the Abyss “When you look too long into an abyss, the abyss looks into you.” – Nietzsche I am become hurricane, whirling manifestation of the abyss I too long look into. I wear whorls in my bloodstream. I hear winds in my earpulse. I am made of water and wild air. In the end, I dissipate across the wide plains in rain, brief flashes, and long echoes.