Antechamber
And Other Poems
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Michael McClure goes at the Godhead the way some men pound at a stuck door. Since the late Fifties, he's tried screaming curses, grunting meaninglessly in "beast language," writing "meat science essays" - and now he's giving Keatsian rhyme a shot in the cause of body-awareness and pan-everythingism. McClure may be our only genuine megaphone poet. "YES! THERE IS BUT ONE/ POLITIC AND THAT/ IS BIOLOGY." "I/ AM/ A MAMMAL/ PATRIOT." Still, with all his talk about the "holistic" and the "flow of the biomass" and "the shattered substrate incorporating chop and moil," McClure is, as he ages, getting a...
Michael McClure goes at the Godhead the way some men pound at a stuck door. Since the late Fifties, he's tried screaming curses, grunting meaninglessly in "beast language," writing "meat science essays" - and now he's giving Keatsian rhyme a shot in the cause of body-awareness and pan-everythingism. McClure may be our only genuine megaphone poet. "YES! THERE IS BUT ONE/ POLITIC AND THAT/ IS BIOLOGY." "I/ AM/ A MAMMAL/ PATRIOT." Still, with all his talk about the "holistic" and the "flow of the biomass" and "the shattered substrate incorporating chop and moil," McClure is, as he ages, getting a little calmer; when his eyes aren't goggling at the biomass at a hundred rpm's, he can even write a fine, alert poem like "By the Highway." But he's no less brave than ever. Few contemporary poets so consistently skirt the hilarious. Or so often fall into it: "We're otters swimming in the shadows of the now." McClure is the kind of poet it would be great fun to read if you knew no English - all those capital letters and the ants-in-the-pants energy! For English speakers, though, subject to understanding, this Whole Me Catalogue is so much rapturous farina. (Kirkus Reviews)
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