Breath: Poems + signed broadside 'Our Valley'

Philip Levine

ISBN 10: 1400042917 / ISBN 13: 9781400042913

Edité par Alfred A. Knopf, 2004

A propos de cet article

Stated First Edition. Bright, clean & tight copy, unread, in AS NEW condition. + As a bonus, I include a poem 'Our Valley' broadside Signed by Philip Levine, sent from Knopf to the bookseller. "Always a poet of memory and invention, Philip Levine looks back at his own life as well as the adventures of his ancestors, his relatives, and his friends, and at their rites of passage into an America of victories and betrayals. He transports us back to the street where he was born 'early in the final industrial century' to help us envision an America he's known from the 1930s to the present. His subjects include his brothers, a great-uncle who gave up on America and returned to czarist Russia, a father who survived unspeakable losses, the artists and musicians who inspired him, and fellow workers at the factory who shared the best and worst of his coming of age. [] Throughout the collection Levine rejoices in song--Dinah Washington wailing from a jukebox in midtown Manhattan; Della Daubien hymning on the crosstown streetcar; Max Roach and Clifford Brown at a forgotten Detroit jazz palace; the prayers offered to God by an immigrant uncle dreaming of the Judean hills; the hoarse notes of a factory worker who, completing another late shift, serenades the sleeping streets. [] Like all of Levine's poems, these are a testament to the durability of love, the strength of the human spirit, the persistence of life in the presence of the coming dark." [jacket copy] "Philip Levine is a great American poet, and BREATH brings the wonderful news that he's still at work on his almost-song of himself."--Terrence Rafferty, The New York Times Book Review. "Levine looks to the forgotten, discounted heart of the matter--'the exquisite in the commonplace'--and what is more common yet precious than breath? Intrinsic to life, breath is the animating force in poetry and music, and Levine's masterfully crafted poems, working-class psalms, are brimming with music in their ringing language, sure rhythm, sensitivity to time, and, more overtly, tributes to musicians Bud Powell, Clifford Brown, and Charlie Parker. Strongly built and finely tuned, these are songs of wind and dust, and of the industrial wasteland, especially that of automotive Michigan, a world of fouled rivers, sooty air, soiled meadows, and vast parking lots. As is his wont, Levine, an earthy and prayerful winner of the National Book Award and the Pulitzer Prize, offers soulful elegies to Rust Belt heroes; sloggers and escapees; family members; and long-mourned war dead."--Donna Seaman, Booklist. Pristine hardcover w/brilliant corners & crisp edges, a square & tight binding, wrapped in a bright-as-new jacket featuring a handsome & evocative photograph of Don Cherry waiting for the subway. A beautiful Knopf volume, quite presentable.

N° de réf. du vendeur RUB3242

Détails bibliographiques

• Titre: Breath: Poems + signed broadside 'Our Valley'
• Éditeur: Alfred A. Knopf
• Date de parution: 2004
• Langue: anglais
• ISBN à 10 chiffres: 1400042917
• ISBN à 13 chiffres: 9781400042913
• Reliure: Hardcover
• Édition: 1st Edition
• État de l'article: As New
• État de la jaquette: As New
• Signé: Signed by Author(s)

A propos de ce titre

Synopsis

Book by Levine Philip

Extrait

The Lesson

Early in the final industrial century
on the street where I was born lived
a doctor who smoked black shag
and walked his dog each morning
as he muttered to himself in a language
only the dog knew. The doctor had saved
my brother’s life, the story went, reached
two stained fingers down his throat
to extract a chicken bone and then
bowed to kiss the ring--encrusted hand
of my beautiful mother, a young widow
on the lookout for a professional.
Years before, before the invention of smog,
before Fluid Drive, the eight-hour day,
the iron lung, I'd come into the world
in a shower of industrial filth raining
from the bruised sky above Detroit.
Time did not stop. Mother married
a bland wizard in clutch plates
and drive shafts. My uncles went off
to their world wars, and I began a career
in root vegetables. Each morning,
just as the dark expired, the corner church
tolled its bells. Beyond the church
an oily river ran both day and night
and there along its banks I first conversed
with the doctor and Waldo, his dog.
"Young man," he said in words
resembling English, "you would dress
heavy for autumn, scarf, hat, gloves.
Not to smoke," he added, "as I do."
Eleven, small for my age but ambitious,
I took whatever good advice I got,
though I knew then what I know
now: the past, not the future, was mine.
If I told you he and I became pals
even though I barely understood him,
would you doubt me? Wakened before dawn
by Catholic bells, I would dress
in the dark -- remembering scarf, hat, gloves --
to make my way into the deserted streets
to where Waldo and his master ambled
the riverbank. Sixty-four years ago,
and each morning is frozen in memory,
each a lesson in what was to come.
What was to come? you ask. This world
as we have it, utterly unknowable,
utterly unacceptable, utterly unlovable,
the world we waken to each day
with or without bells. The lesson was
in his hands, one holding a cigarette,
the other buried in blond dog fur, and in
his words thick with laughter, hushed,
incomprehensible, words that were sound
only without sense, just as these must be.
Staring into the moist eyes of my maestro,
I heard the lost voices of creation running
over stones as the last darkness sifted upward,
voices saddened by the milky residue
of machine shops and spangled with first light,
discordant, harsh, but voices nonetheless.
From the Hardcover edition.