Linda Pastan (1932–2023) was the author of fifteen volumes of poems. A two-time National Book Award finalist and former poet laureate of Maryland, her many honors include the Maurice English Award and the 2003 Ruth Lilly Poetry Prize. Her poems have been translated into eight languages.
It's been said that the primary responsibility of poets is to remind us that we must die. As its title suggests, Pastan's (Heroes in Disguise) ninth book does precisely this. The atmosphere of the collection is autumnal; the clear, spare considerations of mortality are set against a backdrop of vividly colored trees and leaf smoke, the season ``mimicking/ the seasons of the flesh/ which are real and final.'' Pastan's strong title poem departs from these usual emblems, however, and ``Almost an Elegy'' digs deeper into the complex emotions that must accompany thoughts of one's own mortality, despite an expected reference to ``November's leafy rags in which you wrap yourself.'' Other poems, such as ``The English Novel,'' refer less directly to the book's theme; ``Novel'' relaxes into long lines and playful speculations about writing, the family and nature. In all, the poems are lucid and well crafted; their endings snap shut with closure. Yet while they are aesthetically satisfying, they may leave some readers wishing for less resolution, especially given the topic of death, which epitomizes ultimate closure-but also ultimate mystery. (Jan.)
Long associated with the poetry of domesticity-the complexities of gender and personal identity played out within "the arena of the family"-Pastan takes pains to render the turmoil "beneath the lucky surface/of the everyday" with which most of us mask our lives. Her work draws heavily from the idea of the lost Eden, pointing out that the world's perfections and imperfections are equally transient and reminding us "how we comfort/ourselves and each other with the fragile/symptoms of beauty," symptoms manifested in "the fleeting/taste of pears" and "the sweet currents/of Indian summer." The poems in this collection, Pastan's ninth, convey a bittersweet tenor of regret and disappointment, as if wisdom born of experience and maturity ("I understand suddenly/how old I am") has finally discerned the patterns of life only to find them wanting, mechanical. The poems are thoroughly traditional in approach and subject matter, if not in prosody, and lyrical within the constraints of conventional syntax and vocabulary while sparked by seasonal details and their attendant emotions. Still, this poet's particular grace and clarity are trademarks all her own.-Fred Muratori, Cornell Univ. Lib.
|
Ask a Question About this Product More... |
|
