By Philip Schultz
This awesome Pulitzer Prize–winning assortment offers voice to failure with a wry, deft contact from certainly one of this country's most tasty and uncompromising poets. In Failure, Philip Schultz inspires the pleasures of family,marriage, seashores, and canine; big apple urban within the Seventies; revolutions either inside and external; and the terrors of 11th of September with a compassion that demonstrates he's a grasp of the bittersweet and fierce, the wondrous and direct, and the brilliantly provocative. choked with poems of "heartbreaking tenderness that [go] past mere pity" (Gerald Stern), Failure is a set to have fun with from this significant American poet.
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Additional resources for Failure : poems
How the violence of wealth and entitlement was hurled upon disappointment and deprivation, upon lack of magnanimity and the futility of ignorance and poverty... until the world exploded into a burning pit of rage... , and it was all someone else's agony... 10 A pail of hot pitch banged off the wall on its way up the pulley so molten pellets rained down out of the balmy azure sky, singeing my head and shoulders. Junior stood on the ledge, smiling down at me. I owned nothing but my whiteness— was that why they hated me?
Why not ask me, I wondered, why there was no Constitution that included the excluded, appeased the disappointed, buoyed up the downcast— what accounted for the liquid solidarity of the classes, the flight of the bourgeoisie from their illusions, why did the workers turn on those who died to help them, did so many diverse societies hurl themselves into an abyss, could so much hope, desire and confidence fail once again to flourish? In other words: why did Dad own, believe in, admit to, understand and love nothing...
Yo got pimple dreams and pimple ideeas. Also, yo got black pain. It aint kilt yo yet but it will. " 9 Federalists, dogs want strong leadership. On a slow spring Sunday they like to be led along the mumbling Hudson, to the big harbor where the grande dame, spiffy in her mildewed dolorousness, stands alone at the far tip of this miscellaneous island, quietly presiding over the great twin absences we all pretend to no longer notice... 10 Last September, in the balmy blue sunshine I stood shivering inside blue tissue slippers, gray striped pj's, staring up at a few inconsolable leaves on a ginkgo tree, trying to appreciate their fanlike shadows as people disguised as ghosts ran toward me out of the screaming tumult of my amplified consciousness.