By C. K. Williams
Considering the fact that his first poetry assortment, Lies, C. ok. Williams has nurtured an incomparable reputation—as a deeply ethical poet, a author of profound emotion, and a teller of compelling tales. In Writers Writing loss of life, he keeps the fundamental elements of his poetic identity—his candor, the drama of his verses, the social sense of right and wrong of his themes—while slyly reinventing himself, re-casting his voice, and in lots of poems analyzing the personal—sexual hope, the hubris of youngster, the looming specter of death—more bluntly and bravely than ever. In "Prose," he confronts his nineteen year-old self, who despairs of writing poetry, with the query "How may perhaps somebody understand this little?" In a poem of meditation, "The Day keeps Lovely," he extensively expands the size of his recognition: "Meanwhile cosmos roars on with such a lot of voices we can't pay attention ourselves imagine. Galaxy on. Galaxy off. Universe on, yet one other simply in the back of this one . . . " Even the poet's personal function is puzzled; in "Draft 23" he asks, "Between scribble and slash—are we attempting to swap the area by way of altering the words?" With this wildly vivid collection—by turns humorous, relocating, and surprising—Williams proves once more that, he has, in Michael Hofmann's phrases, "as a lot scope and truthfulness as any American poet given that Lowell and Berryman."