<p>Sad-faced Men (1982): Logan writes like an angel – an elegant, literary angel.</p>

- Donald Hall, Iowa Review

<p>‘The most hated man in American poetry,’ a title one could be proud of in this time of fawning and favor-trading.</p>

- Robert McDowell, Hudson Review

<p>The unloveliness of some of the feelings to which Logan gives vent is refreshing, a counter to the melancholy transcendentalism of many of his contemporaries. He takes America personally. . . . Logan’s are never going to be the Nation’s Favourite Poems, but their presence reminds us of what poetry can include.</p>

- Sean O’Brien, Times Literary Supplement

Se alle

<p>Macbeth in Venice (2003): A construct of elegant thematic and formal irony…Logan’s strengths are those of a learned poet – a confident grasp of formal and thematic resource, an archivist’s love of the past and an impassioned concern for tradition.</p>

- J. T. Barbarese, New York Times Book Review

<p>The Whispering Gallery (2005): In a very different vein, that scrupulous and at times ironic austerity distinguishes William Logan's new collection of poems, The Whispering Gallery. Its feelings are under pressure of exactitude and clarity. The flashes of humour are all the more telling.</p>

- George Steiner, Times Literary Supplement

<p>William Logan’s work has frequently elicited comparison with W. H. Auden and Robert Lowell, and for good reason.</p>

- James Matthew Wilson, Notre Dame Review

<p>Strange Flesh (2008): A hard-boiled formalist with a redoubtable aptitude for tersely fastidious diction and sinewy prosody whipped into fighting trim. . . . He can hold his own with just about anyone in vivisecting the vanity of human wishes with savage aplomb.</p>

- David Barber, New York Times Book Review

William Logan’s poetry has been called elegant, difficult, cranky, formidable, dazzling, intoxicating, and ominous. For almost forty years, he has published poems that do not fit comfortably with the work of most of his contemporaries, and perhaps do not want to fit at all. The poems in Deception Island, a selection from his first five books, find their souls in the soullessness of modern life – if he looks upon the present with a withering eye, he sees the roots of later darkness in the early sins of culture. He might be called a moral poet, if he were not so suspicious of the certainties of morality. Nonetheless, he takes a resistant pleasure in the Byzantine contrivance of Venice, in the empty vision of the American west, and in the romantic longing of British landscape. He is equally at home in the privileges of free verse and in the older metrical line, sometimes roughened into sensibility, and rarely heard now with such command or control. Logan has an impeccable ear, a darkening view, and a belief that the poet’s job is to work in language, to do things with words, without attempting to persuade or forgive. In his poems, the echoes of Lowell, Auden, and other modern masters can sometimes be heard; but he has fused his influences into a poetic line that is personal in the private wrestling with language that the poet must accept as his task.
Les mer
William Logan’s poetry has been called elegant, difficult, cranky, formidable, dazzling, intoxicating, and ominous. For almost forty years, he has published poems that do not fit comfortably with the work of most of his contemporaries, and perhaps do not want to fit at all.
Les mer
Contentsfrom Sad-faced MenDeception IslandThe ObjectObserving Whales through BinocularsSeventy-SixTwo LivesTravel ReportIceThe Man on the BedThe MantisA Portrait by BellocqTatiana KalatschovaThe Lizard in His Mediumfrom DifficultyClare and SilenceArcanumThe Angels among the LiarsMoney and DürerBlack HarborSummer IslandBlue YachtTravelFollyGreen IslandThe King of Black PuddingFlour Mites as Moral BeingsThis Islandfrom Sullen Weedy LakesMoorhenCapability Brown in the TropicsThe Rivers of EnglandBanana RepublicsDebora SleepingChrist Church, Oxford / 26 October 18813-13 September 1752The UndergroundRacial Prejudice in Imperial RomeMajor GravesTo the Honourable CommitteeJames at SixtyHaddocks’ EyesAmbassador of Imperfect Moodfrom Vain EmpiresThe Secession of Science from Christian EuropeChrist among the Moneychangers, 1929The Long VacationsA Version of PastoralThe Advent of Common Law in Littoral PursuitsFlorida Pest ControlThe Shadow-LineVan Gogh in the PulpitBritain without BaedekerTristes TropiquesThe Burning ManAnimal Actors on the English Stage after 1642 Flower, of ZimbabweKeats in Indiafrom Night BattleFlorida in JanuarySundays in the SouthMother on the St. Johnsfrom Long Island SinsBlues for PenelopeNothingThe English LightLarkinfrom Paradise LostSongFor the HostagesThe WordsDear ACDear DDMy Father as Madame ButterflyPera PalasAlexander Sarcophagus
Les mer
Nothing Below us the gray fields of England lie like sacks of cement as I fill out the landing card of Her Majesty's government. A girl adrift under her Walkman is sipping her father's vin blanc. I turn to study the orange juice and a new moon of stale croissant, our "continental" breakfast. I've paid with a handful of dimes for the vodka spilled at my feet on the crumpled New York Times. A pale silver wrinkling, or kneading, on the green Naugahyde of sea disturbs the aluminum cowl of the engine by GE, and a coarse white whisker of ship blinks in simple Morse code the danger of scotch on the rocks or ice on wet strings of road across the stubble of Dartmoor where black pools on western slopes surround broken needles of light that might be needles of hope. We are tired, bloodless figures, the waxworks of Madame Tussaud. How little we really expect. How less than little we know. The bowmen who nocked their arrows on the fields of Agincourt protected these gas storage-tanks, the docks of this tiny port, the small rural railway-station, the zipper of British Rail, the consolation of life built on HO scale, the silver sigh of a river squeezed from a tube of paint, the chalky scar of high street and a crossroads that stares like a saint. I remember your dying, your anger, alone in a hospital bed. The dead help no one living and the living no one dead. In minutes we will be landing at the airport of status quo. We never escape very far from the deaths that await us below.
Les mer

Produktdetaljer

ISBN
9781844717170
Publisert
2011
Utgiver
Vendor
Salt Publishing
Høyde
216 mm
Bredde
140 mm
Dybde
9 mm
AldersnivĂĽ
G, 01
SprĂĽk
Product language
Engelsk
Format
Product format
Heftet
Antall sider
148

Forfatter

Biographical note

William Logan has published eight books of poetry and five books of essays and reviews. Among his many awards are the Corrington Medal for Literary Excellence, the Allen Tate Prize, the Peter I. B. Lavan Younger Poets Award, the inaugural Randall Jarrell Prize for Poetry Criticism, and the National Book Critics Circle Award for Criticism. He teaches at the University of Florida and has been called the “most hated man in American poetry” as well as the “pre-eminent poet-critic of his generation,” and the “best poetry critic in America.”