With his trademark wit, formal dexterity, and polymorphic interest
in the world, R.S. Gwynn writes of an America of malapropisms and
bad taste and a literary past ripe for recycling. Whether he
conjures contractors and insurance agents suffering in a satire of
Dante's Inferno, fashions a sonnet taken from TV-listing reductions
of Shakespeare, or pays tribute (and more satire) to the living and
the dead in a moving set of elegies, his mastery of the old masters
and of his art is sincere and irreverent, as he knows the masters
too must have been to their readers. Gwynn is a Juvenal for our
age, pointing out our follies; yet his demonic, demotic energy has
an elegiac timor mortis about it that reminds us nothing is more
serious than a joke. In that sense, Gwynn is a poet for everyone,
and the guiding spirit in this collection is at once elegiac and
wry.
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