By Max Garland
Those poems combat with the inherited myths in their specific time and position. usually set in a small nook of western Kentucky, they discover moments while a person existence turns into implicated in a bigger scheme― the area of chilly warfare politics, the mysteries of non secular religion, the codes and rituals of romantic love. Max Garland exhibits a lyrical decision to house background during the lives, minds, and feelings of normal humans "stricken with time."
In poems approximately baptism, bowling, Greek goddesses, and the hydrogen bomb, Garland turns out to claim that wisdom or even revelation may perhaps come from anyplace. The booklet ends with clone of the empty area Michelangelo left among the fingers of Adam and God at the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel; that stress among what lasts and what passes away, contains the territory of those poems.
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If the worshiper missed, the fault was sin, and he was advised to lead a better life. When it happens right, you know it the instant the ball is released, the body posed like an ornament on the hood of an old Mercury. Not a single pin falls alone. It's as if the strike occurred from the inside of the cluster, as if the ball were a coincidence, a mere reminder for the pins to fall and be swept Page 61 into that brief, clean horizon from which my father would stride, fist clenched in triumph, blue cords straining in the wrist and forearm, like the veins in my own wrist as I write this to remember,]cr twisting it slightly, admittedly, for love, the way the ball itself hurried and twisted, heavy and black as the holes they had not yet discovered in space, black as the brand new moon, not a living soul had touched.
I wore a bow tie, and felt like a third-grader. It was a spring night. And escorting her down the runway was a losing battle, trying to march down among the full, thick folds of crinoline, into the barrage of her Page 46 father's flashbulbs, wading the backwash of her mother's perfume: scared, smiling, tiny, down at the end of that long, thin, Audrey Hepburn arm, where I was king. Page 47 Reminiscence on the Nature and Cause of Flowers Flowers followed women through all I remember of childhood.
Our legs pump, a hand shoots out, the ball hangs Page 21 in the thinnest part of the webbing. Roberto, someone screams from the stands, meaning Clemente, the greatest and strangest player of our day. Though it will occur to us at timesopening an envelope, lifting a couch, or just before the anesthetic takes hold, that there is a net below our lives, that we can know what will happen, the way a circle is foretold by the first few degrees of an arc, that knowledge can break our fall. Though it may not be true, of course, it is the meaning of baseball, as taught to us as children, as we open our envelope, as we lift our couch, as we lie on our gurney counting backwards from ten.