The Lomeo's photo book follows the usual format for this kind of publication, thematic chapters titled From sea to shining sea, Rural life, The open road, Vanishing America etc, etc and I have recently reviewed a similarly predictable book, 'USA' by Jordi Miralles, this had nine hundred plus photos, which turned out to be just too much, though it was a very reasonably priced paperback. Fortunately 'America America' has fewer and much better images.

This is not a photo book with a point of view about America like Robert Frank's 'The Americans' or Joel Sternfield's 'American Prospects' rather it captures the surface look of the Nation in stunning, technically correct, well composed images and this is the reason I like it. I wanted a well printed and designed book showing a visual America in dazzling color.

Bullaty and Lomeo began photographing as a team over 50 years ago when they first met in a dark room in New York City. Sonja Bullaty had come to America, a refugee from the concentration camps of Nazi Germany. Angelo Lomeo grew up as a first generation American in Hell's Kitchen. It was love at first sight and their mutual love of photography is chronicled in this book. America, America speaks to their love of the country while at the same time stands as a statement of over 50 years of working as a team in a very competitive business. Their selective collection of photographs welcome the eye of the observer to join in a journey across this beautiful country and captures the essence of the place as few photography books have ever done. It is more than pretty pictures. This book is a story of love: love of country, love of work, and the enduring love of two people who continue to capture images on film and turn them into works of art. In this new age of digitial imagery manipulation, it is nice to know that we can still step softly into the new millennium knowing that there are still purists out there who photograph for the simple joy of capturing a beautiful moment in perfect light. America,America makes a perfect gift for anyone you love!

To keep going as a writer over the years, at least in the minor and non-commercial genre of American poetry, you have to tell yourself some version of Mark Twain's trans-Atlantic cable: "The reports of my death [as a poet] have been greatly exaggerated." Robin Magowan is an American surrealist poet of genuine imagination and linguistic risks who has kept writing over the years with a consistency of tactic and concern that might be called obsessional, wish-drenched fantasy from one point of view and the signature of an authentic style from another.

A special listening is at the core of this poetics of the syllable and the transcendental image. For "God still moves in the sound of the long 'o,' as Dylan Thomas once suggested; and although a half-century of deconstructive semiotics (and worse) have taught us to be much more cautious about such enthusiasms for the logos and the mystique of verbal and religious presence, such assumptions and risks of intuitive language and the inscape of imagery are at the core of Robin Magowan's poetry.

Magowan's Lilac Cigarette in a Wish Cathedral, as its wonderful title for this project suggests, registers a poetry of risk-fulfillment, tracking extremities and delicacies of sense and wish, mountain journeys, desert flights, movements into and out of the primacy of ecstatic fulfillment that haunts the Greco-Roman tradition as this comes down to the United States via a "whit manic" incarnation that haunts our little streets and huge continental hungers. He works this through the Emersonian sense of abandonment and solitary quest, which seeks "ravishment of the intellect by coming nearer to the fact" of self-loss and the desacralization that is the fate of commodity culture.

This is a singular collection, suggesting a life-long discipline in the poetic image and the path of heightened language, a highly wrought and prolonged "derangement of the senses" a la Rimbaud that has taken Magowan from Greece to Tibet and back it its quest.

The last poem in Lilac Cigarette in a Wish Cathedral (wherein, as Richard Howard aptly puts it in his trenchant introduction, "the hierophant smokes his lilac cigarette in a wish cathedral" that is each poem) is entitled "O," and moves from the crooning and screeching plea of a Whitmanic voice, "O my rooster's urge/ to spring voice loud" to the cranked-up ecstasy (bleeding sound into picture) of "dawn flushed/ crimson screaming o."

Pain and pleasure as elsewhere bleed into the mix, the poet lost into the rooster's urge to give rebirth to the whole mounting and morning landscape. In "Miniature," this transmutation of local scene into the mystique of poetic/ religious presence is effected not so much through the visual as through impactions of the aural, what Hopkins called the "inscape" of leaping vowels: "The pleasure of sounds innocently grasped/ A peacock in the eyes of the rain." This twisted and torqued little haiku of a poem depends on the "e" becoming "I" becoming "a" as much as upon the image transformation. The poem enacts, in "miniature," the mix of hearing and sounding that becomes the aesthetic medium of the "wish cathedral."

In a time still dominated by the locality of image (as in Williams) and the play of skeptical wit (Stevens, and his heirs like Ashbery), Magowan had always pursued something else, something closer to Breton or Michaux and the sources of magical incarnations in European surrealism as a kind of interior Orphic line. Magowan's book thus opens in Greece, and seeks the ecstasy of dance and music as tactic of self-loss. Later, "Orfeo" courts this lineage, where the poet (ancient to modern) descends to mount, "goes in a gorge/ Of pluming, spraying song." No gods or muse arises to help the sense of abandonment and self-loss amid the murmuring of deadly presence, "just a wingbeat to guide/ Murmurous wasp center, alone."

This memoir by Robin Magowan offers not just a chronology of self-formation for the Merrill Lynch heir to the fundaments of capital-building and sexual excess. At its core is a poetic quest for language and vision, a text written and formed in "the visionary company of love" which would include Rimbaud, Whitman, F Scott Fitzgerald, and Henri Michaux. The "labyrinth" the self is entangled in is the excess of wealth and business nexus, the solipsism of sexual need and self-consciousness, the social determinations of class and culture that are never fully voided. But the mentor figures in the book are, oddly enough, James Merrill as delicate social force and trainer of agape, and Nancy Ling Perry as the militant apocalypse of drugs, revolutionary ideology, rage, bliss, and death. Somewhere between these two voices, lost in the heights of Tibet and clarity of meditative consciosness and restraint, Robin Magowan finds a new self and reveals much about the American capitalist self in the process. This is a wondrous book caputuring the 1960s at its visionary and crazy core, and moving out of the conformist 1950s into something better. It is a poetic quest worthy of a great soul, written with courage, lucidity, and need. A drunken boat casting its waves from Merrill Lynch to Dante and ordinary selfhood. A prayer of "crack up" like Fitzgerald's uttered in the micro-cracks, woundings, and megatrends of capital gone inward into self-abolishment and the quest for vision.

Mason's collection of essays is a wide-ranging and overall pretty good collection of essays. The title essay is sort of a 'literary memoir', and while I expected it to be one of the better essays, it really isn't. But there are some excellent essays on Auden, Tennyson, Frost, Heaney, Louis Simpson, J.V. Cunningham, Anne Xexton, and Irish poetry. And then there are the essays meant to further the cause of the New Formalist movement. They almost sound like propoganda, but they are well written, enjoyable essays that make sense. And my favorite essay is "Other Lives: On Shorter Narrative Poems." Mason is a phenomenal narrative poet, and anyone with an interest in narrative poetry should read this essay.

This book is a collection of essays and reviews by poet David Mason, who thinks that contemporary poetry and its professional readers have neglected "nonacademic readers" like "the educated common reader." Through a critical style that incorporates the anecdote and that admires Louis Simpson's "refreshingly personal criticism," "as if we were hearing after-dinner opinions," Mason's text follows the goal of his Preface: "I have in mind that audience of grown-ups arguing about books even while they discuss . . . the latest political tremors or a new movie coming to town." Mason's taste for life in poetry criticism, whether communicated through autobiographical or biographical techniques, doesn't mean that he remains uncritical of self-absorbed forms of art. In the title essay, for instance, Mason acknowledges "the useful legacy of Eliot's ideas" in support of "the self so distanced from itself." Of the book's sixteen sections, five open with personal anecdotes. These anecdotes quickly become relevant to their subject matter (whether regionalism, self-indulgence, sentimentality, Tennyson, or Yeats). Given Mason's opposition to self-indulgence, one might argue that Mason develops contradictory attitudes toward forms of expression, or that he is critical of the personal in art, but then makes self-absorbed statements like, "Nowadays close reading often bores me," or, "I have sometimes felt that I was part of a story, and that I had a sacred duty to transcribe as much of it as I could." Yet such personal statements have relevancy to the larger poetics/rhetoric of the essays. Besides, wouldn't it seem odd--and bad writing at that--to claim that "poetry helps us live our lives" without then providing here and there a few examples from life when it has? Mason claims, "People do quote poetry, or refer to it--some do, anyway--and they connect it to their lives." He then supports this claim with the example of when his mother once remembered six potent lines by Yeats. Yet Mason's theory about why "people remember poems or songs or key phrases at surprising moments in life" is questionable. He says that "the best forms of expression are often those we most want to remember." But he suggests that these best forms of expression are those that are so large, so universal, so full of matter, that they "convey 'a general truth'." "Universality is suspect in some quarters, I suppose, but I submit," Mason says, "that we cannot have great art without it." When Mason then quotes from W.H. Auden's New Year Letter, he means to show how such poetry that conveys truth makes things happen because, as Auden once said, it survives--in the memory, among other places--as a way of happening, a mouth." Yet the section he quotes, like so many Auden lines, might seem to some less like a memorable poem and more like lineated philosophical text. What are the best forms of expression for poetry? This is an important question for Mason. On the one hand, there is the often difficult poetry of magnitude, and on the other, that of locality, which is less difficult. Mason proposes that the former is usually formal, whereas the latter is typically free verse. He worries that the latter is generally practiced by poets who "ought to hold themselves to higher standards than they sometimes do." These standards are the focus of Mason's important essay "Louis Simpson's Singular Charm." A New Formalist and one of the editors of the anthology Rebel Angels: 25 Poets of the New Formalism, Mason believes that meter "is . . . a kind of compression that, in the right hands, lends language a supercharged memorability." He finds that Simpson, with his rejection of meter, "has courted danger, choosing a slighter technical range that often highlights his lackadaisical diction." Mason's essay is good at providing us with passages--from articles by and interviews with Simpson--about this Jamaican-born poet's reasons for this rejection. The reasons involve Simpson wanting his poetry to be more accessible and direct for an audience like the one Mason advocates. Simpson believes free verse better lends this accessibility and directness. Mason disagrees, making some convincing arguments; one is that Simpson "comes to that tired solecism that meter is un-American." Readers need only digest what is arguably the most important essay in The Poetry of Life, "American Poetry in the Nineteenth Century," to be reminded of the great American poets who worked sometimes accessibly and gorgeously in traditional forms. But in arguing that Simpson's stylistic change toward accessibility and directness "leaves disturbing implications for the art," a change which sometimes lends Simpson's poetry what Mason calls "deliberate banality," Mason may not be true to his aversion to the Twentieth-century critics who have prized difficulty in poems. Perhaps Mason, who from time to time in this book reminds readers of his career as an English professor, is more on the side of J.D. McClatchy, "accustomed . . . to respect the authority of difficulty," than he is on the side of Dana Gioia, to whom Mason devotes a chapter, desiring neither anti-intellectualism nor a ban of difficulty in art, but, instead, a popular audience for poetry? Accessibility, difficulty, formality, memorability, popularity, universality--these are the interesting buzzwords of The Poetry of Life. They are perhaps defined and discussed with the most clarity and precision in Mason's superb "Robert Frost, Seamus Heaney, and the Wellsprings of Poetry." Though this essay has as its primary concern a comparison of Frost and Heaney, it draws this definition and discussion in, and in very enlightening ways. Though different in many ways, both poets, Mason asserts, "have made use of colloquial speech in their poetry" and "refreshing rhythm and idiom with materials that are at least partly extra-literary." Mason demonstrates this use, rhythm, and idiom through focusing attentions on and drawing connections between each poet's images of work, play, and water. No doubt, these images are universal. And Mason knows precisely when and from what poem to quote, showing that Frost and Heaney often image the world without either that magnitudinous air of Auden and Eliot or that more banal, informal language of Simpson.

Mason is a rarity in this day and age--a poet-critic who writes in a public idiom. He is clear in his aesthetic criteria, but not so dogmatic that his work lacks room for surprise (I was surprised to see him so enthusastic about John Haines, for instance). What is most important about his writing, though, is that it is elegant as well as insightful; these essays are as much a pleasure to read as the poets he discusses. My own efforts at poetry criticism lack the warmth and elegance that allow Mason to wear his erudition lightly. The elegance, direct tone, intelligence, and accessibility of these essays give me hope that poetry criticism outside the university is not in critical condition. Cheers to Story Line Press for supporting this important poet's work.