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Breathing Room: Poems, by Peter Davison
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"Peter Davison, for years, has pondered with clear insight the perspectives of affection, attachment, loss, and memory, his language spare and his tone classical and deceptively quiet. The poems of this new collection look at the same world with surprise and speak of it with a startled and startling freedom, feeling 'entitled to / the liberty of breathing easy'--a freedom that brings with it the old clarity and eloquence."
--W. S. Merwin
The poems in Peter Davison's exuberant new collection contemplate the paradox of growing old--of having a mind still "a juicy swamp of invention" in a body beginning to falter.
Both intimate and generous, these poems celebrate the cycle of the seasons, of death and rebirth: snapping turtles lay their eggs and new ones hatch; a ruffed grouse drums his spring mating dance. Memory is central: a mother's lost face; a father's voice that "plumbed the marrow of poetry as tenderly / as if a darling had crept into his arms"; a wife's "rueful eyes, cornflower blue." And the poet pays tribute to the literary life--to reading, to the precise moment a word rises to consciousness, to getting over Robert Frost, to the mind of Sylvia Plath.
These are poems that expand time for us and deepen place, whether Davison is taking us on a path along a limestone cliff under canopies of holly and ivy, or is revisiting the instant while recovering from surgery when it becomes clear he is going to heal. "To learn poetry," Davison writes in his foreword, "we need to take poems into our breath and blood, and that requires us to hear them as we read them, to learn to read with all the senses, especially with the ear." Breathing Room gives us a splendid array of poems that we want to read with all our senses.
- Sales Rank: #3147810 in eBooks
- Published on: 2012-07-11
- Released on: 2012-07-11
- Format: Kindle eBook
From Publishers Weekly
After more than 35 years of poetry collections, memoirs, criticism and editorial work, Davison announces that the poems of his 11th collection "mostly assume a single poetic form," one he borrows from the late work of a greater ombudsman, William Carlos Williams. But where Williams's achieves an intuitive elegance through triadic-footed tercets that matched the breath, Davison's free verse tends to go slack along with the material it carries, like the old pal the speaker catches "calculating/ whether life with her might not be/ very convenient, considering her parent's/ money." More at home as a naturalist than a nostalgic storyteller, Davison strikes a keener music when strolling through a "Seaside Summer Quarry" ("Sentried by sabers of iris,/ bared granite rocks/ jut up// from the soft starry beds of/ emerald moss") or observing how "Falling Water" will join "its first// brook and amble off into the yielding/ soft-shouldered marsh past fat roots of/ lilies to linger among the slick fronds// of algae paddled by ducks." Davison, however, is more prosaic when taking on the relationship of Ted Hughes and Sylvia Plath, whether problematically adopting Plath herself as the speaker in "Sorry" ("When I woke up my cheek was full of maggots./ In the hospital they broke my head/ with lightning bolts. Everyone was so kind.") or, even more presumptuously, collaging snippets from some of the couple's more famous poems (Hughes's "Lovesong" and Plath's "Daddy" and "Edge") in a "Ballad" commemorating their "immortal mismarriage,/ their language// splintered and splayed/ in the throes/ of brutality." The effect is not cathartic, transgressive or celebratory in any sense. Davison opens his book with "No Escape" and closes it with the very same poem (only in italics), but readers may have already gone out the back by then. (Sept.)
Copyright 2000 Reed Business Information, Inc.
From Library Journal
"Poetry composes, not as modern Western music often does but for the human breath," says Davison, an award-winning poet and editor of the Atlantic Monthly. Nothing revelatory here: Charles Olson put forth a nearly identical thesis in 1950. The poems feel equally staid: Davison's memories of childhood, family, and lost loves are of passing interest, and the moment he veers from specific events, the poems deteriorate into trite generalizations, as when they're addressed to a distant "you." Other pieces pontificate, while still others, such as "Prayer to the Verb," are too whimsical to be considered serious. Forays into nature are ambitious (as in two poems adopting the snapping turtle's voice) but once again uninsightful and disappointing. Despite ten previous books of poetry, Davison has had more influence as an editor than a poet. Recommended for comprehensive collections only.DRochelle Ratner, formerly with "Soho Weekly News," New York
Copyright 2000 Reed Business Information, Inc.
From Booklist
The son of a poet close to such luminaries as Sylvia Plath, Anne Sexton, Richard Wilber, W. S. Merwin, and Adrienne Rich, Davison has inhaled and exhaled poetry all his life. Now he introduces his zesty new collection with the hope that he's written well enough to seduce readers into learning his poems by heart, and, indeed, his warm and vigorous poems are organic in their flow and graspable in their clarity and compelling rhythm. Davison gazes into the fountain of memory and conjures up the aromas of his childhood home, a 1930s cross-country drive in the grit of a dust storm, and failed loves. He studies the world around him and pays tribute to horses and snapping turtles, ponders our making of a "tame planet," re-creates nightmares, and celebrates the way breath weaves us into the warp of life. --Donna Seaman Donna Seaman
Copyright © American Library Association. All rights reserved
Most helpful customer reviews
4 of 4 people found the following review helpful.
But, I like lots of them
By Readerwoman
The pros who reviewed this book have a different agenda than casual readers, I think. (Or is it that there are so few casual readers of poetry? I note that there are very few customer reviews of books of poems...) It seems to me that most readers enjoy having their emotions stimulated by use of poetic language and form, and are less interested in edginess, or newness, or technical fireworks. On that basis, I recommend reading the poem You, referred to by one reviewer as a trite generalization directed at a distant you. Doesn't feel trite or generalized to me--in fact, as it transports me into the experience of someone yearning for his dead mother (pretty specific, huh?) it makes me cry. I don't feel manipulated, just moved. I'm not lost in admiration of Davison's technical achievement, just moved. But I think that's what a poem should do.
3 of 3 people found the following review helpful.
A positive review
By A customer
The reviewer from Library Journal makes me laugh because she so misread the poem "You". I agree with the previous reader/reviewer, it is very specific, it is clearly addressed to the poet's mother, and it makes me cry too. One of the things that made me decide to change fields after getting my degree in lit was the overwhelming pretension and condescension of professionals, who seem to have forgotten that poetry isn't, or shouldn't be, only for an academic elite who make a career of exegesis.
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