Miami Univ
People Live, They Have Lives: Poems
      Regular price
      
        $7.95 USD
      
    
    
        Regular price
        
          
            
              
            
          
        Sale price
      
        $7.95 USD
      
    
    
      Unit price
      
        
        
         per 
        
        
      
    
  Shipping calculated at checkout.
Couldn't load pickup availability
                
    
    Title: People Live, They Have Lives: Poems
    
            
Author: Hugh Seidman
ISBN: 1881163032
Publisher: Miami Univ
Published: 1993
Binding: Paperback
Language: English
Condition: Used: Very Good
Very light wear to audiobook discs. Case included but clearly used. 100% money-back guarantee on all orders.
D 1637039
Publisher Description:
Do these poems struggle? driven to the language that cannot change a life - until it does. Or as might be said: poetry doesn't care about us. At the same time, the syntactical object interests endlessly. At first an almost believable order. Then, one sees (hears) that it fails. The transparent now opaque - like the centipede who cannot walk for thinking on its legs. And how rescue the self (=form) from the myriad permutations? How purge the dark with sun? Silence will not do, though not the worst solution and an obvious temptation. And so love, death, and rebirth are said over and over, as they have been said over and over, because the speaker knows nothing else to say. Until Father speaks from his grave, until senile Mother transmits his voice - as thus, in fact, the orders are called forth. Until the poem lumbers up on their high-octaine psychic fuel.
              
Author: Hugh Seidman
ISBN: 1881163032
Publisher: Miami Univ
Published: 1993
Binding: Paperback
Language: English
Condition: Used: Very Good
Very light wear to audiobook discs. Case included but clearly used. 100% money-back guarantee on all orders.
D 1637039
Publisher Description:
Do these poems struggle? driven to the language that cannot change a life - until it does. Or as might be said: poetry doesn't care about us. At the same time, the syntactical object interests endlessly. At first an almost believable order. Then, one sees (hears) that it fails. The transparent now opaque - like the centipede who cannot walk for thinking on its legs. And how rescue the self (=form) from the myriad permutations? How purge the dark with sun? Silence will not do, though not the worst solution and an obvious temptation. And so love, death, and rebirth are said over and over, as they have been said over and over, because the speaker knows nothing else to say. Until Father speaks from his grave, until senile Mother transmits his voice - as thus, in fact, the orders are called forth. Until the poem lumbers up on their high-octaine psychic fuel.

