Robert Duncan (1) (1919–1988)

Although many of these poems and pieces contain imagery that can all but freeze a reader's breath, I fear it's not a collection I could really recommend. As a whole, the collection feels more experimental than powerful, and as much as I love poetry, I didn't find myself enjoying much of this read. I'm not the biggest fan of Duncan's work, though I read him enough in poetry courses, but this collection left me less engaged even than others, and although I could appreciate the works, I simply didn't get any real enjoyment from them.… (mere)

It is as if I were moving towards
the wastes of water all living things remember the world to be,
the law of me
going under the wave.

Doubt was rather high. My approach to this collection was almost reluctant. Timid. There were early aspects I found to be inscrutable. Poundian cryptograms. Words carefree on foreboding space. I feared my limitations, not the impossible---though the sum of which hardly differs, no?

Then I found sections on grieving, Palpable human loss, the mad work to construct to satisfy, to allow matters to linger. Then there was the outrage: Vietnam.
From the height of the endless towerwhere Ecstasy carried me:
I have gazed at the cold and sad world, black and agitated. . .

The structure of this verse is pretty amazing, even to a roustabout layman like myself: a Beckett in greasy overalls.… (mere)