By Virginia Adair
Ideals and Blasphemies shows a similar qualities--accessibility, deep feeling, knowledge, humor, and technical brilliance--that made Virginia Hamilton Adair's first selection of poems, Ants at the Melon, right into a bestseller and a literary landmark. the following Mrs. Adair devotes her cognizance to a unmarried topic, faith, yet in her exceptional functionality the theme's adaptations change into vast and deep--from reverence to iconoclasm, from comedy to profundity, from pleasure to lament. when you are trying to find Hallmark platitudes or E-Z religion, glance elsewhere.
In "Saving the Songs," for instance, we reassess Martin Luther's penchant for recycling barroom tunes into hymns: "Said Luther of the making a song in saloons,/'Why should still the satan have the top-quality tunes?'" extra soberly, in "The Reassem-blage," we're requested to check the extremes of the Christian model of the hereafter--"one a verdict brutal past imagination,/the different by way of such a lot reviews an eternity of boredom"--against our hearts' hopes. the realization? "Some myths are too negative for our believing." "Goddesses First" muses concerning the primacy of girl deities in lots of non secular myths. "Choosing" makes use of the poet's digital blindness to give an explanation for her occasion of the one contrast her "frail imaginative and prescient can discern": the literal distinction among evening and day. Zen temples and the chapel at a kingdom psychological sanatorium, animism and meditation, whores and angels--this curious, witty, and compassionate sensibility encompasses them all.
Virginia Hamilton Adair is a uniquely American poet--restless in her lyrical investigations, hopeful and sincere, rigorous in her formal accomplishments, spontaneous in her feelings. ideals and Blasphemies will attract somebody who has ever thought of first issues or ultimate things--anyone who enjoys speculating approximately how we came and the place we're going--and it is going to reconfirm its author's stature as a countrywide treasure.
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« Désâmé », c’est du Desbiens typique et classique. Un lecteur familier y retrouvera des effets vus ailleurs, assonances, comparaisons, structures syntaxiques en parallèle, mots fétiches même.
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Extra info for Beliefs and Blasphemies: A Collection of Poems
I had to move, at least to put new things in front of me, 26 if not to make another kind of home, if home was what I wanted in the ﬁrst place. I’d call it by its name if it had one, or, failing that, I’d call it Africa. 27 Key My Sunday morning nightmare takes me beyond mystical towers and strident boulevards to the underground whose priestesses lurch the halls, shaking their ﬁery coifs around the latest deranged advisories that they have to spew onto the air to help me ﬁnd my way to the hotel with my luggage and your note about the errand you needed me to run and waited to hear about from the cell phone that was not there in my gray coat pocket.
I mention that the bench was clean because most of the benches there had droppings on them, which was no one’s fault. All I had to do was ﬁnd a clean spot and a bit of shade close to the trash bin for the stick and wrapper, while I woke to the feast of blues and greens. The rest was autumn and the moms and prams and boys on bicycles with training wheels. A girl in a blue dress walked out of the sun straight up the one long path among the trees as far as someplace else she had to go. 50 All You Can Eat A man is tenderly kissing a child’s head.
The photograph showed their bodies on the front page. He tugged my hand and kept me from seeing it. We mark these solitudes throughout our lives. 36 This is not simply about things as they are. This is about donuts, proﬁteroles, and straw hats. Things cannot be as they are in this country. 37 At the Bureau of Divine Music The whole day I hung around in the sky over Russia was a Wednesday in October. No one looked up with any semblance of regard from the heroic Russian people. I had ﬂown from Paris to visit the faubourgs of Omsk, Irkutsk, Novosibirsk, but they were ﬁlled with a smother of blue coal ﬁres, shadows of shadows coughing up tendrils of gray phlegm onto ice ﬂoes that passed for boulevards, back alleys, byways that ended in country lanes over the Urals to Ulan Bator and the Mongolian grasslands.