This was an interesting collection. However, not for the reason you might surmise. The strength in this collection relies heavily on the poems that Beckett wrote in French as well as those he translated. His poems in English leave much to be desired. Nevertheless, a decent collection and one worth reading.

3.25 stars. ( )

I would like my love to die
and the rain to be raining on the graveyard
and on me walking the streets
mourning her who thought she loved me


This is a triumph, a whirlwind , an elegance of emotional acuity brocaded in jaw dropping language. He drifts from idiom into the pastoral. He reflects into recesses. His odes echo. Much of this volume is Beckett's own translations of French poetry into English.
( )

The book is divided into three sections--Beckett's English poems, Beckett's French poems (a few translated by the author himself; the remainder in French alone), and poems by French authors translated by Beckett. Beckett's poetry doesn't really "cut it" for me. It lacks the rhythms of favorite poets and uses a less polite vocabulary. While I enjoyed some of his shorter poems (in both English and French), the ones beyond about a dozen lines did not engage me. I enjoyed some of the other French poems but not others. Beckett's talent must lie in other forms of writing. ( )

Even though these works are comparatively slight, I think my first reading of this volume was too breezy; nevertheless, "Whoroscope" yielded one of my most beloved phrases (and apparently most infuriating in-jokes): "In the name of Bacon will you chicken me up that egg. / Shall I swallow cave-phantoms?"

Also, "Gnome" nicely, cruelly encapsulates the dubious pursuit of higher education:

"Spend the years of learning squandering
Courage for the years of wandering
Through a world politely turning
From the loutishness of learning." ( )