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The last magician
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Displaying 1 - 1 of 1 review
May 5, 2011
The only way I can describe this book is “quintessentially American,” though I’m not entirely sure what I even mean by that. It just seems like Corey grew up in the America we were all supposed to call our own, with picnics, fireworks, bedtime stories and Sunday papers. And, given its sincere reflection and thoughtful musings, it reads like the collection was penned by a father grateful for his new life after spending his youth traveling. He’s somewhere stationary now and wildly appreciative of having a wife, kids and a home in the suburbs.
It’s well-educated, well-executed poetry by a man thankful for poetry and what the world has to offer poetry. There’s a lot of quiet smirks lurking behind the words, painting the portrait of the American Dream without the delirious ecstasy, but with the calm, secluded possibility that it can exist. But he never sets out to do that, so the poems don’t come off as big hope or endless love. It just comes off real, as one man tries to interpret the world from his place in it.
Twas swell.
It’s well-educated, well-executed poetry by a man thankful for poetry and what the world has to offer poetry. There’s a lot of quiet smirks lurking behind the words, painting the portrait of the American Dream without the delirious ecstasy, but with the calm, secluded possibility that it can exist. But he never sets out to do that, so the poems don’t come off as big hope or endless love. It just comes off real, as one man tries to interpret the world from his place in it.
Twas swell.
Displaying 1 - 1 of 1 review