Revard's poems are more like those of Seamus Heaney than those of
Paul Muldoon - more like Robert Frost than Wallace Stevens, more
like Mark Twain than Henry James. They are true stories, some from
time on the Osage Reservation during Dust Bowl days, some from the
Isle of Skye in Hippie Time, others from Creation Time in Las Vegas
with Trickster, at the Hotel Empire in Manhattan with Dante, under
dragons flying over St. Louis, dodging bullets while stealing
watermelons, listening to humpbacked whales and wine-throated
hummingbirds in Bellagio, parading with the Veterans of Foreign
Wars to publicize some powwow in the old Indian-fighter
headquarters at Jefferson Barracks on the Mississippi, sitting with
Ponca cousins in a bar and hoping not to get shot after the
occupation of Wounded Knee. The reason for every poem in this
marvellous selection is to invite readers into its personal,
familial, communal space to feast with the Ponca people and Revard
on whatever they have on the table. These poems are all for having
some kind of good time together, and the more the merrier.
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