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The poets of "Eight" are Theodore Roethke, Elizabeth Bishop, Robert Lowell, John Berryman, Anne Sexton, Sylvia Plath, Allen Ginsburg, and James Merrill. Each poet's work is prefaced by a substantial individual introduction.
There are many masterpieces in this book. Curiously, I found the most compelling poems to be those that focus on nature: Roethke's "The Meadow Mouse," Bishop's "The Fish," Plath's "Mushrooms," and Merrill's "The Octopus." Poems like these combine skillfully used language with keen insight, and reveal these poets to be true heirs of Walt Whitman and Emily Dickinson (two of the featured artists in "Six American Poets").
Overall, I felt that "Eight" was not as strong as its sister volume, "Six." Although there are many poetic masterpieces in "Eight," there is also much material which, in my opinion, hasn't aged well. The so-called "confessional poetry" of some of these writers strikes me as overwrought. Some of the longer poems failed to resonate with me. I was particularly disappointed by Berryman's "Homage to Mistress Bradstreet," especially since I am an admirer of Anne Bradtreet's own work. Admittedly, this criticism may merely reflect my own personal tastes, but I submit it for the reader's consideration.
The fact that so many of these poets either wrote about each other, or pop up in the editor's introductions to each others' work, sometimes gives the book as a whole a creepy, incestuous feel. And the fact that so many of these poets committed suicide, had long-term mental health problems, and/or suffered from addictions further gives the book as a whole a rather morbid feel. On second thought, maybe this group of eight is a bit problematic!
Still, editor Conarroe has assembled an impressive anthology that I would recommend for students and teachers, as well as to a general readership. Although a mixed bag, "Eight American Poets" contains some truly enduring work by an octet whose legacy is secure.
Like Conarroe's "Six American Poets", the anthology introduces us to each poet with a short biography that is presented before the poet's work. We learn about their lives and come to understand some of the primary forces that have shaped their poetry. I have found that this greatly enriches the experience of reading poetry because I better see the struggles that lead to each individual creation. After each collection, Conarroe offers a list of books and anthologies where each poet has been published so that we, should we wish, can come to know the work of a given poet much better.
This anthology is a wonderful starting place for someone who, like me, desires an introduction to some of the greatest American poetry ever produced. Personally, I feel, after reading this anthology that I have come to truly appreciate the work of Elizabeth Bishop and Theodore Roethke, in particular. I had never known their work well, but suddenly each jumped off the page at me, Bishop for her wonderfully vivid descriptions and Roethke for his intensely moving subjects. Plath and Sexton also really spoke to me, their work so reflecting their lives. Overall, this anthology is superbly worthwhile reading!
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This is outstanding poetry, and I recommend this book to everybody.
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Roethke on himself is uninteresting. Ego, a couple of aphorisms, some examples (which are worth paying attention to - pity you're struggling to stay awake at this point) and a lot of the sort of waffle that he, by his own repeated insistence, would have completely rejected in poetry. Oh, and a fair bit of cattiness - see the chapter "A Tirade Turning" (what were people thinking when they included this? And why?)
The worst thing about this book is its unevenness. If it was all poorly/boringly/self-indulgently written, then you would be able to dismiss it as the work of someone who "wasn't any good at writing about writing". But then he comes out with sections like "Some notes on rhythm"; one of the most lucid explanations of rhythm effects that I have yet come across.
All in all? An disappointing book, if only because of the brief flashes of how much better it could have been. Too much self-indulgence, too much spite, too much self-congratulation. So much potential unrealised!
The discriminating review reader recognizes this is all rot, impressionistic nonsense, jealousy etc. but what can we conclude from a man responsible for such measured yet meaningful proclamations as: "It's not that many Americans can't think: they just don't want to."; "Therefore I shall get on with the daily business of revelation." and "That's the horrible thing about being a genius. Everything's so obvious."
I have not committed the unpardonable sin of removing small pieces of text from a context in order to support a slapdash critique. Roethke's done that for me. There are three or four whole chapters composed in just this manner. Disconnected comments selected only for one or another Roethkian turn of phrase, but otherwise amputated from a subject; carefully composed insults that refer to no one in particular, but which he was apparently eager to save for just the right moment; moanings and groanings about the state of the world, the trials of the genius...blah, blah.
The telling fact is that these were selected from his personal notebooks-apparently by himself. He appears to have devoted considerable time and effort to preparing disparaging one-liners, grandiose statements of purpose and pale jokes for the classroom. I consider it reasonable to expect that a 'great' poet would have more in the way of great poetry to offer than any number of carefully rehearsed bon mots; and if this is the sort of thing he considers worthy of display ("Mother of God, I just invented a few sayings out of me head. Is that wicked?") I fear for what the remainder of his notebooks might contain. The best lesson an aspiring poet might learn from this book is not to listen too closely to one's teachers. Go and read Mary Oliver's very excellent book instead.
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