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My Poets
A thrillingly original exploration of a life lived under poetry’s uniquely seductive spell.
“Oh! There are spirits of the air!” wrote Percy Bysshe Shelley. In this stunningly original book Maureen N. McLane channels the spirits and voices that make up the music in one poet’s mind. Weaving criticism and memoir, My Poets explores a life reading and a life read. McLane invokes in My Poets not necessarily the best poets, nor the most important poets (whoever these might be), but those writers who, in possessing her, made her. “I am marking here what most marked me,” she writes. Ranging from Chaucer to H. D. to William Carlos Williams to Louise Glück to Shelley (among others), McLane tracks the “growth of a poet’s mind,” as Wordsworth put it in The Prelude. In a poetical prose both probing and incantatory, McLane has written a radical book of experimental criticism. Susan Sontag called for an “erotics of interpretation”: this is it. Part Bildung, part dithyramb, part exegesis, My Poets extends an implicit invitation to you, dear reader, to consider who your “my poets,” or “my novelists,” or “my filmmakers,” or “my pop stars,” might be.
“Oh! There are spirits of the air!” wrote Percy Bysshe Shelley. In this stunningly original book Maureen N. McLane channels the spirits and voices that make up the music in one poet’s mind. Weaving criticism and memoir, My Poets explores a life reading and a life read. McLane invokes in My Poets not necessarily the best poets, nor the most important poets (whoever these might be), but those writers who, in possessing her, made her. “I am marking here what most marked me,” she writes. Ranging from Chaucer to H. D. to William Carlos Williams to Louise Glück to Shelley (among others), McLane tracks the “growth of a poet’s mind,” as Wordsworth put it in The Prelude. In a poetical prose both probing and incantatory, McLane has written a radical book of experimental criticism. Susan Sontag called for an “erotics of interpretation”: this is it. Part Bildung, part dithyramb, part exegesis, My Poets extends an implicit invitation to you, dear reader, to consider who your “my poets,” or “my novelists,” or “my filmmakers,” or “my pop stars,” might be.
273 pages, Hardcover
First published June 19, 2012
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Displaying 1 - 30 of 38 reviews
July 3, 2012
There is a small shelf of "poets on poetry" books that I treasure – Howard Nemerov's peerless Figures of Thought; Richard Howard's classic Alone with America; Robert Duncan's Fictive Certainties; Thom Gunn's Shelf Life – come immediately to mind.
Now I add Maureen McLane to that shelf. I stumbled on her book a week or so ago; it instantly became my favorite morning reading; it brought me back to that whirl of enthusiasm I felt when I first discovered Poetry. Some argue that there are only poems, not poetry, but for me poetry means the whole shifting inner world of poems felt and remembered, inscribed or buried in our bones, shaded, gleaming with intransigent significance; poems shared at Important Moments with Important Others. Without (to choose wildly) Cavafy, Pessoa, Gunn no doubt my life would lose its armature.
(This burst of intemperate enthusiasm, which should embarrass me, is testimony to the McLane effect – or to the caffeine of an iced latte I finished with her book, I can't say.)
McLane has accomplished something wonderful, claiming kinship, ownership, of a small group of poets who are intertwined with her biography. This is something that anyone who lives by poetry will immediately appreciate, although most of us would only make a mess of it (see above). A few of her favorites (Marianne Moore; HD) move me not at all, but I was happy to entertain her rhapsody. For me the most unexpected treat was her abecedary of "My Translated" – of which a sample few:
And there I just used the word, the only right word for this book: delight.
Now I add Maureen McLane to that shelf. I stumbled on her book a week or so ago; it instantly became my favorite morning reading; it brought me back to that whirl of enthusiasm I felt when I first discovered Poetry. Some argue that there are only poems, not poetry, but for me poetry means the whole shifting inner world of poems felt and remembered, inscribed or buried in our bones, shaded, gleaming with intransigent significance; poems shared at Important Moments with Important Others. Without (to choose wildly) Cavafy, Pessoa, Gunn no doubt my life would lose its armature.
(This burst of intemperate enthusiasm, which should embarrass me, is testimony to the McLane effect – or to the caffeine of an iced latte I finished with her book, I can't say.)
McLane has accomplished something wonderful, claiming kinship, ownership, of a small group of poets who are intertwined with her biography. This is something that anyone who lives by poetry will immediately appreciate, although most of us would only make a mess of it (see above). A few of her favorites (Marianne Moore; HD) move me not at all, but I was happy to entertain her rhapsody. For me the most unexpected treat was her abecedary of "My Translated" – of which a sample few:
My Akhmatova is Judith Hemschemeyer.This is an excitable list I immediately want to extend and argue with. I was also delighted by her centos (poems constructed from lines from other poems), in which familiar verse rings out among the more obscure. As with the translations it made me want to return to known poets (of whom of course we never know enough) and to discover the unfamiliar.
My Alberto Caeiro is Fernando Pessoa.
My Archilochus is Douglas E. Gerber and Guy Davenport.
My Beowulf is Seamus Heaney.
My Cavafy is still Rae Dalven.
My Federico García Lorca is a vast field of devotion including W.S. Merwin, Stephen Spender, and Lysander Kemp.
My Li Po is sometimes Ezra Pound.
My Pessoa is Richard Zenith.
My Pushkin does not exist.
My Wang Wei is David Hinton.
And there I just used the word, the only right word for this book: delight.
Read
May 8, 2016At times it was like crashing the gates of a private club and reading by-laws meant for members only (more on that in a moment). And at times it was like reading someone's (OK, Maureen McLane's) thesis paper on this poet or that. And in some cases, hopefully not that. And my, but Maureen writes in a pretty how town way. Professorial stuff:
"Through Sappho she explored as well a kind of somatic poetics, a kind of sensually incarnational NOW." (Huh?)
"The vatic inward versus the detailed observed. The hieratic versus the potentially conversable." (Say wha-?)
"Much of the force of great modernist works arises from their desublimating impulse channeled into shatteringly, newly adequate forms..." (Again?)
Very, very impressive indeed, these $10 gibbers and $5 -ishes. I hadn't a clue, but I nodded at all the right moments. Some chapters dragged on forever. "My Marianne Moore and Moore and More and More and Will She Ever Stop?" That and one to "H.D." Hilda Doolittle? I'd never known this poet. I wear my ignorance on my sleeve but, deep in my vest, wanted to learn -- if only I could clear the vatic hurdles of incarnational, desublimating language.
In another chapter called "My Translated: An Abecedary," McLane deluges the reader with four pages of one liners, each saying things like "My Alcaeus is David A. Campbell," "My Akhmatova is Judith Hemschemeyer," "My Durs Grunbein is Michael Hofmann," "My Paul Muldoon is Paul Muldoon." Of course there are some poets the layreader will recognize, but they are few and far between, and seldom will many readers recognize both names in McLane's apparently clever pairs.
On and on it goes like an insider's wink, and I can't help but regret how this type of thing sets poetry back anew, perpetuating the belief that poetry is rarefied air meant only for rarefied lungs. It's as if McLane is signaling to others in her club, others who will recognize her each allusion and her every dropped historic and contemporary name, nodding knowingly like priests at a secret temple. Don't we put the eru- in -dite, the winks seem to say. We, the Keepers of Truth and Beauty in a great, unwashed world of bestseller-readers or (more horrifying still) TV-watchers and Youtube addicts.
Throughout the book lines of many poets are shared, though seldom in the entirety of the poem they are taken from. Often McLane tries some of her own poetry on for size. (It doesn't fit.) Some of the professional poems are in bold print, others in italics. Often I can't tell which line belongs to whom. Is this McLane? Is it the featured poet in question? Is it other poets brought in as background vocals for harmony?
But I liked OK the chapter (short) on Emily D., the Belle of Amherst. And the one on Shelley, too, but only because McLane talked mostly about his adolescent-like obsessions for free love or lust and half-priced revolutions, and not so much about his poetry. It's as if she took a wrong turn, found herself in the realm of biography, and the natives cheered.
Two of the chapters were found poems. Giant, 85-line poems, each line purloined from a poet's great work. It's a wonderful parlor game, but I wasn't about to trudge through all 85 lines in either case. Like excerpts from symphonies on public radio, all stitched together, it was. Gogol's overcoat, chapter and verse.
Marvelous moments, yes. Ambitious idea, surely. And I was grateful to catch glimpses of some lovely lines previously unknown. But, in the end, the book gets bogged down by too much ivory and too much tower. If you read poetry for a living and don't need a program guide (or an intermission) to get through such "learn'd astronomer's" thoughts as McLane's, you will certainly enjoy her book. Otherwise, pass. Hold tightly to what you already know and love about poems you've met and appreciated thus far in life.
And for heaven's sake, keep reading poetry.
"Through Sappho she explored as well a kind of somatic poetics, a kind of sensually incarnational NOW." (Huh?)
"The vatic inward versus the detailed observed. The hieratic versus the potentially conversable." (Say wha-?)
"Much of the force of great modernist works arises from their desublimating impulse channeled into shatteringly, newly adequate forms..." (Again?)
Very, very impressive indeed, these $10 gibbers and $5 -ishes. I hadn't a clue, but I nodded at all the right moments. Some chapters dragged on forever. "My Marianne Moore and Moore and More and More and Will She Ever Stop?" That and one to "H.D." Hilda Doolittle? I'd never known this poet. I wear my ignorance on my sleeve but, deep in my vest, wanted to learn -- if only I could clear the vatic hurdles of incarnational, desublimating language.
In another chapter called "My Translated: An Abecedary," McLane deluges the reader with four pages of one liners, each saying things like "My Alcaeus is David A. Campbell," "My Akhmatova is Judith Hemschemeyer," "My Durs Grunbein is Michael Hofmann," "My Paul Muldoon is Paul Muldoon." Of course there are some poets the layreader will recognize, but they are few and far between, and seldom will many readers recognize both names in McLane's apparently clever pairs.
On and on it goes like an insider's wink, and I can't help but regret how this type of thing sets poetry back anew, perpetuating the belief that poetry is rarefied air meant only for rarefied lungs. It's as if McLane is signaling to others in her club, others who will recognize her each allusion and her every dropped historic and contemporary name, nodding knowingly like priests at a secret temple. Don't we put the eru- in -dite, the winks seem to say. We, the Keepers of Truth and Beauty in a great, unwashed world of bestseller-readers or (more horrifying still) TV-watchers and Youtube addicts.
Throughout the book lines of many poets are shared, though seldom in the entirety of the poem they are taken from. Often McLane tries some of her own poetry on for size. (It doesn't fit.) Some of the professional poems are in bold print, others in italics. Often I can't tell which line belongs to whom. Is this McLane? Is it the featured poet in question? Is it other poets brought in as background vocals for harmony?
But I liked OK the chapter (short) on Emily D., the Belle of Amherst. And the one on Shelley, too, but only because McLane talked mostly about his adolescent-like obsessions for free love or lust and half-priced revolutions, and not so much about his poetry. It's as if she took a wrong turn, found herself in the realm of biography, and the natives cheered.
Two of the chapters were found poems. Giant, 85-line poems, each line purloined from a poet's great work. It's a wonderful parlor game, but I wasn't about to trudge through all 85 lines in either case. Like excerpts from symphonies on public radio, all stitched together, it was. Gogol's overcoat, chapter and verse.
Marvelous moments, yes. Ambitious idea, surely. And I was grateful to catch glimpses of some lovely lines previously unknown. But, in the end, the book gets bogged down by too much ivory and too much tower. If you read poetry for a living and don't need a program guide (or an intermission) to get through such "learn'd astronomer's" thoughts as McLane's, you will certainly enjoy her book. Otherwise, pass. Hold tightly to what you already know and love about poems you've met and appreciated thus far in life.
And for heaven's sake, keep reading poetry.
June 7, 2014
McLane's book is an original blend of criticism and autobiography so deftly written that it can smoothly glide along the seam between the two metiers, casting first this shadow, then that shadow. She has written My Poets to pay homage to those poets to whom she feels close and who have have influenced her life and work. Here are essays on Wallace Stevens, Elizabeth Bishop, Marianne Moore, Emily Dickinson, Percy Bysshe Shelley and others that purr, growl, sing, rant and, finally, clarify how these poets have touched her. Her aim is to describe Wordsworth's great subject, the "growth of a poet's mind."
The form is the essay. McLane herself is a poet, though, and the shape of the prose on the page is like that of poetry, as is the lyricism of her words and images. The poet central to her work is H. D. (Hilda Doolittle). She is the poet with whom McLane feels the most common links, attitudes, biographical similarities. It's in her loving discussion of H. D. that she writes thoughtfully about what poetry really is as art, a form of thought. But these are all her poets for a reason. From the polemic against provincialism she sees in William Carlos Williams, to the wildness at the heart of Emily Dickinson, to the expression of her feminism and sexual openness she finds in Shelley, these poets have spoken for and to her and have become hers.
You've never seen anything like this before. Critical exposition, memoir, confession, love letter--take your pick. My Poets is all these and more. Not only is it engagingly insightful into the poets she writes about, it's breathtakingly lyrical in its own right and fun to read. It's probably correct to say it's valuable, too. Concerned as it is with the "growth of the poet's mind," it expands the reader's, serving as a road map to the imagination.
The form is the essay. McLane herself is a poet, though, and the shape of the prose on the page is like that of poetry, as is the lyricism of her words and images. The poet central to her work is H. D. (Hilda Doolittle). She is the poet with whom McLane feels the most common links, attitudes, biographical similarities. It's in her loving discussion of H. D. that she writes thoughtfully about what poetry really is as art, a form of thought. But these are all her poets for a reason. From the polemic against provincialism she sees in William Carlos Williams, to the wildness at the heart of Emily Dickinson, to the expression of her feminism and sexual openness she finds in Shelley, these poets have spoken for and to her and have become hers.
You've never seen anything like this before. Critical exposition, memoir, confession, love letter--take your pick. My Poets is all these and more. Not only is it engagingly insightful into the poets she writes about, it's breathtakingly lyrical in its own right and fun to read. It's probably correct to say it's valuable, too. Concerned as it is with the "growth of the poet's mind," it expands the reader's, serving as a road map to the imagination.
May 2, 2018
In my ongoing quest for the holy grail of poetry, or at least its Rosetta Stone, I continue to read and read about poetry. It’s a good thing I bought so many poetry books that have been gathering dust in my garage. The filth and silverfish give them a sense of antiquity, as if I’m reaching back to some primal utterance, such as God supposedly spoke to begin creation. At least that’s what I tell my wife if she accuses me of hoarding. Among those forgotten relics is MY POETS by Maureen N. McLane, a hybrid of classic poetry fragments, critique and just enough memoir to satisfy my gossipy curiosity but not so much that I want to scream, “Shut up!” at the page. It was a bit of a transition for me at first, as McLane is a poet and her prose is heavy scented with a perfume of seriousness. She’s no comic, but eventually there’re a few cracks in her sober facade, not jokes exactly, but the light of humor shines through enough that once I got used to her style and my annoyance quickly dissipated. As I read the excerpts from famous poems, shards of critique and got a glimpse at her life as a student, wife and divorcee, I found myself almost without knowing it, wanting to spend more time with her, the words and her ideas that are masticated (not chewed, that’s too pedestrian) to a fine mush. I like mush, and I liked this book, which gave me a greater appreciation of the many poets she touched on and McLane herself. I still find poetry a mystery, but maybe I’m getting more okay with that.
February 17, 2015
What an enjoyable, quirky, little magpie collection of essays about the education and development of one poet. There isn't really much to learn about the poets featured in the book but rather a chance to hear how McLane's own reading/writing habits developed and how she evolved a personal style (along with hints of biographical details that shaped her development as well.) I really dug the way she uses a Gertrude Stein-style to talk about her immersion in the work of Elizabeth Bishop as a young woman at college -- a unique pairing that reveals a lot about McLane. I think the longest piece in the book is about Marianne Moore, which is not surprising because Moore does seem to present a formidable example for McLane (albeit not an overtly obvious influence -- I totally concur with McLane when she writes, "She has no heirs. She has several epigones but their detail-laden lacquered ships for me don't float. She flares singular, exemplary, a diamond absolute the American East forged in a pressure chamber we have yet fully to excavate.")
Imagine if MFA students had to write this type of personal development as a poet/writer rather than an "original" thesis? I think they'd find out a bit more about their own writing process and aesthetic assumptions than the glittering train-wrecks most MFA theses turn out to be. But then the genre would quickly become tiresome, something that these little essays are not.
Imagine if MFA students had to write this type of personal development as a poet/writer rather than an "original" thesis? I think they'd find out a bit more about their own writing process and aesthetic assumptions than the glittering train-wrecks most MFA theses turn out to be. But then the genre would quickly become tiresome, something that these little essays are not.
August 9, 2024
No idea what to say here tbh
January 18, 2013
Had to skim parts. Need to be in way deep to enjoy much of this book. As someone who was sampled modern and contemporary poetry on and off for 10+ years, I only got some references. I think the author's private thought processes are better left private or discussed in some graduate or postgraduate seminar, because they are impossible to follow, not fleshed out, or involve references nested in references. Seriously, she has a chapter made entirely of one-line quotes from poems, I guess the choices she made are supposed to mean something but what?
It did introduce me to one or two new works that I'd like to explore on my own, but this book was way too convoluted and precious for me. The jargon was mind-blowing.
It did introduce me to one or two new works that I'd like to explore on my own, but this book was way too convoluted and precious for me. The jargon was mind-blowing.
September 26, 2012
I haven’t had this much fun in ages. By page 10 I was infatuated with Maureen McLean. By page 30 I was fully in love with her talent her words. this book will serve those who have read in any degree, an assortment of poets--- however--- it will also serve those who are curious about poetry, since she discusses and quotes many poets that can be a guide, suggestions for further investigation. Some parts are Anne Carson-ish. Some make you slow down, re-read, be dazzled by McLane’s ability to articulate.
February 2, 2015
A lot of this book is a sort of pastiche of different lines from great poems or poems the author loves. But I like how it's put together, and the chapter on "My Impasses: On Not Being Able to Read Poetry" was a wonderful description of what it's like to read a poem and just not get it - honestly I've never read someone write about that before. That was probably my favorite part but I loved how she revisted the modernists especially Moore and Stevens. I like the modernists and the romantics (although I prefer Wordsworth/Coleridge to Keats/Shelley). Too bad they're not in style.
October 31, 2012
"Let be be finale of seem."
What does this mean? McLane doesn't know,
and neither do I.
Pardon, my keyboard's enjambed.
What does this mean? McLane doesn't know,
and neither do I.
Pardon, my keyboard's enjambed.
March 30, 2017
Maybe I'd like it better if I had read more of the poets talked about.
June 18, 2017
there is really nowhere quite like unabridged books in lakeview, which boasts a quite generous sale section unlike most independent bookstores, & that is where after years of casual searching i found my poets on sale for $6.99 (cheaper than the june sale at the co-op which, i belatedly realized, would surely have it as well—it treats its UofC alums well). & then in my first willful act of summer recreational reading i read it—in a hotel room next to my sick just-graduated sister, on the green line next to couples and kids and grandparents giving away and sharing a box of do-rite donuts, on the red line, in my apartment living room next to my roommate, finishing it, the night before i woke up feverish with strep throat. a response, of a kind.
even without the fever (though still with the remaining strep throat) it is still too hot to think or write any further, really, but it was a necessary refreshing read, a kind one, one with a few too many emdashes just the way i like it, one i may send to a friend who just graduated who has Her Poets more, probably, than i do. it is fun to feel selfish about circumstances one only happens in to, but i think she, a sharp sentiment-valuing queer women and a poet once entrapped at the university of chicago, would share in that selfish pleasure.
even without the fever (though still with the remaining strep throat) it is still too hot to think or write any further, really, but it was a necessary refreshing read, a kind one, one with a few too many emdashes just the way i like it, one i may send to a friend who just graduated who has Her Poets more, probably, than i do. it is fun to feel selfish about circumstances one only happens in to, but i think she, a sharp sentiment-valuing queer women and a poet once entrapped at the university of chicago, would share in that selfish pleasure.
December 29, 2017
This is a thoroughly unusual book. The book delivers a personal set of reactions or responses to a series of poets. The text is almost aphoristic in the way that the author presents her points, which are very organized, yet feel like stream of consciousness in the way that they are put forth.
McLane's responses come from a deep and intuitive knowledge of the poets themselves, but the book overall is absolutely hard to follow at times. Part of my difficulty understanding the book has to do with her selection of poets, which includes names like Dickinson, Bishop, Williams, Stevens and others. Not having personal familiarity with the poets made it hard to assess her points regarding those poets. Amusingly, the the only poets in her list that I had familiarity with were the ones she bracketed her series with - Chaucer and Shelley.
This is a book that I will come back to again, and expect to learn from, again. Definitely recommended, but definitely not an easy book to approach.
McLane's responses come from a deep and intuitive knowledge of the poets themselves, but the book overall is absolutely hard to follow at times. Part of my difficulty understanding the book has to do with her selection of poets, which includes names like Dickinson, Bishop, Williams, Stevens and others. Not having personal familiarity with the poets made it hard to assess her points regarding those poets. Amusingly, the the only poets in her list that I had familiarity with were the ones she bracketed her series with - Chaucer and Shelley.
This is a book that I will come back to again, and expect to learn from, again. Definitely recommended, but definitely not an easy book to approach.
August 9, 2022
Poet Maureen Mclane delves into the lives of the poets and the poetry that formed her….”I am marking here what most marked me.”
I enjoyed the sections on poets Bishop, Gluck, Williams, and Moore. I did not enjoy the sections where she interspersed lines from a variety of poems….”An envoi in the form of a cento.”
I do believe that poetry stands alone in helping one mourn, so I’m grateful especially for the exposure to Louise Gluck:
—Because in truth
I am speaking now
The way you do. I speak
Because I am shattered. “The Red Poppy”
I enjoyed the sections on poets Bishop, Gluck, Williams, and Moore. I did not enjoy the sections where she interspersed lines from a variety of poems….”An envoi in the form of a cento.”
I do believe that poetry stands alone in helping one mourn, so I’m grateful especially for the exposure to Louise Gluck:
—Because in truth
I am speaking now
The way you do. I speak
Because I am shattered. “The Red Poppy”
February 13, 2018
Highly recommend for those who enjoyed Mary Oliver's Upstream, particularly her essays that focus on her relationship with other writers.
January 10, 2023
An interesting read. Sort of a memoir in poets read. And it inspired a couple poems from me.
February 15, 2015
Early on in McLane's book, she confesses herself a failure in poetry analysis: 'These markings trace not so much the path of reading but a path of not-reading, a series of failed attempts, graspings, and gropings. In short: I cannot believe what an idiot I was! / And yet of course I can'. 'I did not understand this poem,' she writes, but 'I wanted to understand this poem.' And so begins the strangest work of poetry criticism I've ever encountered.
The pretence at objectivity is a bizarre requirement of works of straight-up academia: bizarre because who can pretend they are ever fully neutral about anything? That they weren't attracted to a specific poet because of a specific life event, or more widely that the literary canon isn't entirely formed out of the political and personal whims of the academic elite? McLane's work 'My Poets' puts the self back into academics, using the possessive 'my' to form her own canon of poets like Marianna Moore, Fanny Howe, Emily Dickinson, and H.D. who have shaped her life and whose poetic meaning has been shaped by her life. Interweaving personal narrative, complex poetical criticism, and brilliant creativity - the text begins with a 'Proem in the form of a Q & A' made up of replies from favoured poems, and contains two cento interludes again formed out of marbled lines of poems - McLane shows that personal life and poetry are always linked, shaping each other and giving each other sense.
McLane is a poet and has a poet's ear for sentences - the work is so beautifully written I drew out the reading of it, relishing each sip of prose. The introduction to Marianna Moore in particular was a favourite, although she wrote about H.D. and Emily Dickinson (among others) so beautifully and drawing such complex conclusions that I really can't recommend this highly enough. If you like poetry, and if you're interesting in seeing how a poet experiences poetry, this is for you.
The pretence at objectivity is a bizarre requirement of works of straight-up academia: bizarre because who can pretend they are ever fully neutral about anything? That they weren't attracted to a specific poet because of a specific life event, or more widely that the literary canon isn't entirely formed out of the political and personal whims of the academic elite? McLane's work 'My Poets' puts the self back into academics, using the possessive 'my' to form her own canon of poets like Marianna Moore, Fanny Howe, Emily Dickinson, and H.D. who have shaped her life and whose poetic meaning has been shaped by her life. Interweaving personal narrative, complex poetical criticism, and brilliant creativity - the text begins with a 'Proem in the form of a Q & A' made up of replies from favoured poems, and contains two cento interludes again formed out of marbled lines of poems - McLane shows that personal life and poetry are always linked, shaping each other and giving each other sense.
McLane is a poet and has a poet's ear for sentences - the work is so beautifully written I drew out the reading of it, relishing each sip of prose. The introduction to Marianna Moore in particular was a favourite, although she wrote about H.D. and Emily Dickinson (among others) so beautifully and drawing such complex conclusions that I really can't recommend this highly enough. If you like poetry, and if you're interesting in seeing how a poet experiences poetry, this is for you.
Read
May 18, 2016I didn’t read this book. It’s a poet’s exploration – often poetic – of the poems that have been most important to her. Maureen N. McLane is herself a poet, and a teacher and critic of poetry. I should’ve known I was over my head when I read this on the jacket flap: “Part Bildung, part dithyramb, part exegesis, My Poets extends an implicit invitation to you, dear reader, to consider who your “my poets,” or “my novelists,” or "my filmmakers,” or “my pop stars,” might be.” Actually, to be honest, that is what drew me in! Not the first bit, which contains three things I had to look up. (dithyramb – an ancient Greek hymn sung in honor of Dionysius; exegesis – critical explanation of a text, particularly scripture; Bildung – a German word describing an entire philosophy of liberal arts and its personal application, a concept about which entire books have been written) But the second bit, about exploring what art and the people who make it have meant to me was very appealing. I know this is a wonderful book. I’m just not the right reader.
However! The book opens with this “Proem in the Form of a Q&A” in which McLane answers a laundry list of interview questions with lines from poems. That kept me trying in this book for a long time. I’d read that, and be thrilled, and try another chapter. And I did start a list of “My Poems” and added “Proem” to it.
However! The book opens with this “Proem in the Form of a Q&A” in which McLane answers a laundry list of interview questions with lines from poems. That kept me trying in this book for a long time. I’d read that, and be thrilled, and try another chapter. And I did start a list of “My Poems” and added “Proem” to it.
September 26, 2012
A poet who writes both experimental and traditional narrative/lyric poems, I had highly anticipated reading Maureen McLane's My Poets. The cover blurb reads "In poetical prose both probing and incantatory, McLane has written a radical book of experimental criticism."
For this reader, McLane's prose is neither probing nor incantatory. I had hoped for thoughtful comments that would give me greater insight into more elusive poets, such as Gertrude Stein, but instead I read the type of inane comments as follows:
"My Wallace Stevens is an insurgent inching in the bristling forest and a stolid giant rolling metaphysical rhymes down the mountain" (54).
As a memoir of her encounter with poetry, the book relies too much on quotes from the poets she's read and too little on solid, in-depth literary criticism.
For this reader, McLane's prose is neither probing nor incantatory. I had hoped for thoughtful comments that would give me greater insight into more elusive poets, such as Gertrude Stein, but instead I read the type of inane comments as follows:
"My Wallace Stevens is an insurgent inching in the bristling forest and a stolid giant rolling metaphysical rhymes down the mountain" (54).
As a memoir of her encounter with poetry, the book relies too much on quotes from the poets she's read and too little on solid, in-depth literary criticism.
May 20, 2013
It's rare for me to find a book where I have to look up a word on nearly every page. And I have a Ph.D! So reader, beware: this is not a book you will whiz through. And some sentences and passages strike me as purposefully leaving the reader in the dust for no good reason. But this erudite and thoughtful book looks at the author's favorite poets and her personal journey with them, and what a journey it is. If you don't let yourself be intimidated by inchoate sections, there is much to admire and absorb here. Anyone who loves poetry should take on this book (not as one's first attempt to understand poetry, though), as it deals with the more obtuse and challenging paths that poets can take, and helps you appreciate those paths. Combining personal history with criticism, it's an exhilarating read.
July 30, 2012
Some chapters glide on the air, some are slow, requiring you to stop at each enjambed line, each twisted, poetically logical line of McLane's used to describe her influences, the poets who feel as much a part of her, I sensed, as herself and her own words.
Other chapters I had to let go of understanding because I don't know as much about the author--such as "My Shelley." At the same time, I don't know much about Elizabeth Bishop, or thought I didn't; and then I realized I knew the words to her wide tunes.
I find that literary influence works in the mind exactly as McLane portrays it, so this book is a revelation and a masterful work of self-discovery, with the aid of over 100 voices.
Other chapters I had to let go of understanding because I don't know as much about the author--such as "My Shelley." At the same time, I don't know much about Elizabeth Bishop, or thought I didn't; and then I realized I knew the words to her wide tunes.
I find that literary influence works in the mind exactly as McLane portrays it, so this book is a revelation and a masterful work of self-discovery, with the aid of over 100 voices.
July 25, 2013
What a fascinating, challenging, interesting book. This is not a book for everyone - but the more I read the more I liked it. She reviews several poets (and poetry itself) throughout. She does it in a very unconventional way that puts the poets she is speaking of and the poetry they right in a unique and different light - that actually throws light on their work (and on our lives). This is a very provocative - and yet, for me at least, important piece of literature. Reading it sets one free from the conventions of literature - but not just for that purpose - but because one can communicate important things in new ways from time to time. And the author accomplishes that. I’m glad I read it.
Read
July 3, 2013Loved this book, a performative/experimental exploration of how we read poetry, and what we do with what we read. Her first chapter on Bishop and Stein is brilliant and beautiful: I especially love her descriptions of how completely mystified she was by poets like Frank O'Hara after her training in close reading under Helen Vendler, and her conviction that it's fine not to understand or "master" a poem; sometimes we just experience it. The H.D. chapter was especially wonderful, I can't say I'm converted to Fanny Howe (could have left that chapter out entirely), and her remixed poems created from lines from various poets are interesting exercises but didn't really work for me. No matter--it's a book that's shamelessly intelligent, personal, honest, idealistic, and exhilarating.
April 16, 2015
This is an uneven text. It is delivered sometimes in the first person and sometimes in the second. At times it smacks of “Harvard Harvard,” that hard, purist criticism from which no dissent may be brooked. At times it is freighted with Freud. At times it seems to strive to breach the academic walls and take on poetry as if it mattered in its own right. The sections on Elizabeth Bishop, H.D., and Shelley are, though somewhat disjointed by the academic and psychiatric points of view, the most enjoyable reading of the whole.
December 6, 2012
Maureen McLane clearly know her poets and has a grand time with them. Unlike a series of essays on different poets, she clips the style of just a few and enjoys the cento quoting line after line of others not mentioned.
It took me a long time to "get through" the book, although I used her prologue "proem" immediately after reading, (in a class on poetry) to show what ingenuity and how! can be used.
It took me a long time to "get through" the book, although I used her prologue "proem" immediately after reading, (in a class on poetry) to show what ingenuity and how! can be used.
July 8, 2013
It is very hard to translate passion into words, what with it being entirely irrational. That said, McLane gave it a hell of a go. Enjoyable and compelling, at least until the final entry about Shelley which got muddled. An interesting mix of criticism and memoir and a blow-by-blow working through of poems by an obviously hell-of-intelligent reader and writer. 3.5 stars, but i don't think i need to own it.
(Personally, i think the section on Marianne Moore is the most interesting.)
(Personally, i think the section on Marianne Moore is the most interesting.)
March 13, 2013
McLane is a teacher, poet, and critic and she brings much to this memoir/criticism.
Written in 2012 it pays close attention to some of her favorite poets adding some
autobiographical material to the mix. It is brilliant reading. I now have some new
ideas for what to read next or reread. Great fun to share in her thoughts about these
poets, such as H.D., Emily Dickinson, Shelley, Wallace Stevens, Fanny Howe. If you are
interested in poetry you will love this book.
Written in 2012 it pays close attention to some of her favorite poets adding some
autobiographical material to the mix. It is brilliant reading. I now have some new
ideas for what to read next or reread. Great fun to share in her thoughts about these
poets, such as H.D., Emily Dickinson, Shelley, Wallace Stevens, Fanny Howe. If you are
interested in poetry you will love this book.
Want to read
August 19, 2012In spite of the fact that the asinine NYT reviewer takes the opportunity to note that a "cloistered narcissism [is] typical of memoir," I went online and read a few other reviews that encouraged me not to blame the author of this book, which sounds wonderful. I look forward to read it. But never, never Daisy Fried.
May 8, 2015
I approached this book with a lot of excitement. I don't know much about poetry so I was intrigued about this approach. It started off just fine but as it went along it couldn't meet my expectations. Lots of fascinating parts but in the end a little flat. I think maybe I wanted a little more memoir but that's not what the book advertised.
April 30, 2013
Read this slowly over many months and can't wait to re-read it many more times. A perfect way to remember and re-understand some of the greats. Thanks mom :)
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