Creeley's strongest work in years - which finds him restored by the
humility of age to his greatest advantages as a poet: his sense of
tight, muttered fun and his absolute, almost dogging sense of
intimate "honor." The poems remain vulnerably minimal, but in
Creeley's mood of surrender to time, they are less feisty, their
glints more harmonious to a central whole. A poem about a beach,
"La Conca," achieves great aptness in the smallest space; and when
an idiom is called for it arrives with simplicity and in mint
condition (the poem "Night Time" goes, in full: "When the light
leaves/ and the sky's black,/ no nothing/ to look at,/ day's done./
That's it"). There are some lapses here, surely: "For John
Chamberlain" is sloppy and congratulatory with sentiment; and the
"I dig"s and other hipsterisms refuse to flush out of Creeley's
working vocabulary, as does the Poundian tic of dropped
prepositions. But, in the variations of the title poem, the sly
humor and relaxation evidenced toward art in "Flaubert's Early
Prose," in the well-felt and nobly direct, Montale-like address to
an old and favorite aunt, "I Love You" - in the clarity, in other
words, of his retraction (the clue to Creeley, perhaps: his
turtleness), there is something moving and shapely. With this
volume he reminds us of his importance and his grace as a poet.
(Kirkus Reviews)
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