Unlike many poets of his generation, August Kleinzahler has managed to shun the permanent ivory teaching tower for a quieter existence in California and New Jersey, where he was born in 1949. Influenced by the Beats and jazz, his poetry has always been rough around the edges, off-color, loose stylistically but direct and honest. The Hotel Oneira shows Kleinzahler's age: it's more reflective, more conscious of time.
There's a wistfulness here, a trace of the bittersweet, placidity. Life now is "ardent but fitful." In "Sports Wrap," he writes about a failing baseball team as a "distressing tale" unfolding, "inning by inning, game by game." In "Epistle XXXIX," he envisions his funeral:
"I really was a decent chap, underneath:
kind to dogs, shop clerks--and something of a wit, to boot."
It's no surprise to find a fine, longish poem entitled "The Rapture of Vachel Lindsay," who, like Kleinzahler, was a singing poet. Addressing Lindsay as a "poor little calf," Kleinzahler muses: "You know, don't you, what America will do to you, what truly befalls you."
The final poem, "Traveler's Tales: Chapter 12," might be a serenade:
"The cruise ship heads out of the harbor before dark...
It has all turned out better than we probably dared hope.
It frightens me, just this moment, to say so."
Give this strong, American poetic voice a try. --Tom Lavoie, former publisher