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Sto caricando le informazioni... Streets in Their Own Ink: Poemsdi Stuart Dybek
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"Streets in Their Own Ink . . . has a gritty realism infused with a sense of the marvelous." --Edward Hirsch,The Washington Post In a city like that one might sail through life led by a runaway hat. The young scattered in whatever directions their wild hair pointed and, gusting into one another, they fell in love. -from "Windy City" In his second book of poems, Stuart Dybek finds vitality in the same vibrant imagery that animates his celebrated works of fiction. The poems of Streets in Their Own Ink map the internal geographies of characters who inhabit severe and often savage city streets, finding there a tension that transfigures past and present, memory and fantasy, sin and sanctity, nostalgia and the need to forget. Full of music and ecstasy, they consecrate a shadowed, alternate city of dreams and retrospection that parallels a modern city of hard realities. Ever present is Dybek's signature talent for translating "extreme and fantastic events into a fabulous dailiness, as though the extraordinary were everywhere around us if only someone would tell us where to look" (Geoffrey Wolff). Non sono state trovate descrizioni di biblioteche |
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 Google Books — Sto caricando le informazioni...GeneriSistema Decimale Melvil (DDC)811.54Literature English (North America) American poetry 20th Century 1945-1999Classificazione LCVotoMedia: (3.56)
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The first section of this collection hit home for me. It seems that we both grew up in a primarily Polish Catholic neighborhood. Many things that Dybek writes about, I experienced from the red brick streets to the biker bar (where I used to deliver the newspaper). It was an immigrant part of town and many of the grandparents did not speak English or very limited English.
The poems captured a bit of lost youth. "Ginny's Basement" is much like many friends basements an indoor teenage hideaway cave where parent's seemed to respect your space. "Fish Camp" and the catching of bullheads took me back to the pond where I used to fish after school. My grandmother (first generation American) paid me for the fish I caught. No one else in my family would eat bullheads. "Volcano" reminded me of the steel mill. The hot steel flowing and the coke tower fires visible for miles. Like a volcano it also left its "ash" for miles around.
I am sure we were from different cities and different times (a generation apart) but there are ties and shared memories we both experienced that we both carry on through though adulthood. Dybek gives the reader a big city flashback to what many like to think of as better days of youth. (