| From Publishers Weekly The poems in Moore's sixth book are passionate meditations on love， partnership， loss， and aging. Moore， in the title poem， delicately renders the complexities of partnership: "Our hands / touch， finally， hours / after our argument." He looks back compassionately at his past: "I floated in the large wind / of my childhood...waiting patiently， the good boy I was， / for all that easiness to end." He variously figures his death: "...let there be thunder on that day，" "...it is good to sleep the night through without waking." Though Moore is not as edgy or grim， fans of Louise Glück will find a voice they can relate to， as will readers of Tony Hoagland. Occasionally， Moore is prone to limp lines， in which original formulations cede the stage to unaffecting expressions， such as in a poem that ends， "Try...not / going all the way." There are also a handful of unconvincing， familiar， or overly sentimental moments， such as when a dog is asked to "tell me / what life is like / for those who love / without condition or restraint." But the book offers accessible and moving reflections on the surprises available to anyone willing to pay close attention. Copyright © Reed Business Information， a division of Reed Elsevier Inc. All rights reserved. From Booklist In the midst of life， Dante found himself he knew not where. Moore knows very well where he is， and he takes consolation from the place， even though it isn't the transcendent， just order revealed to Dante， but only the world he and we know. Oppressed by his mother's impending death， in "You Are Human，" the opening poem， Moore considers being "a lake， / a way to lie still in the world." But a lake is a route for boating humans from shore to shore， he thinks， and the effort collapses. The poems immediately following elaborate the contradiction between longed-for stillness and necessary continuation， between the end of suffering and the ineluctability of time， as Moore grieves his own as well as his mother's death. Her passing recurs throughout the rest of the book， integrated with and enriched by the many later poems that quietly revel--not without sadness and anger， and quite often with the aesthetic humility of classical Chinese and Japanese verse--in nature， art， literature， travel， and love. Ray OlsonCopyright © American Library Association. All rights reserved See all Editorial Reviews |
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