A wonderfully inventive,
formally bold long poem from the author of Cigarettes
and The Sinking of the Odyadek Stadion. Formal experimentation
the past and seizes conceits, forms and rhythms from the history of
appropriating with a free hand a range of language seldom used by
poets. Yet the poem is absolutely contemporary, especially in its
pillaging the rich past to furbish the poet's vivid present.
"Long renowned for his masterful and duplicitous fiction, Harry
Mathews the poet
has been little known until now, making this important and long-overdue
all the more welcome. His poetry is both bizarre and deeply moving."
"Verve, intelligence, fun, plus a serious refurbishment of genres
shine from these pages."
"Best (if not enough) known for his novels,
Harry Mathews is also a poet, a most
inventive American writer [whose] language makes intimate local structures
pleasure. Like Andres Serrano, Mathews is an artist of body fluids,
of portable and
compendious oceans. Indeed, the early 17th century underlies his abstract
not to say his syntax."
--Donald Hall, Harvard Book Review