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The Late Parade: Poems
The first collection of poetry from the newly relaunched Liveright imprint.
Adam Fitzgerald “is a born poet whose extraordinary gift for phrasing, music, and verbal invention distinguish him from any young poet I know writing today,” writes Mark Strand about the twenty-nine-year-old American newcomer who follows “in the line of Arthur Rimbaud, Wallace Stevens, and John Ashbery” (Maureen McLane). Fitzgerald, whose title poem “carries the primal vision of Hart Crane into a future that does not surrender the young poet’s love of the real” (Harold Bloom), has already published in the Boston Review, A Public Space, Conjunctions, and the Brooklyn Rail and has become a poetic lightning rod in the East Village and other avant-garde settings. Here, in The Late Parade, he presents 48 poems that “fire dance around meaning itself” (Boston Review) yet help to redefine the modernist vision for the twenty-first-century with near-demonic displays of sonorous density and manic verbal fertility. This dazzling debut collection will be sure to “cause a commotion” (Timothy Donnelly).
Adam Fitzgerald “is a born poet whose extraordinary gift for phrasing, music, and verbal invention distinguish him from any young poet I know writing today,” writes Mark Strand about the twenty-nine-year-old American newcomer who follows “in the line of Arthur Rimbaud, Wallace Stevens, and John Ashbery” (Maureen McLane). Fitzgerald, whose title poem “carries the primal vision of Hart Crane into a future that does not surrender the young poet’s love of the real” (Harold Bloom), has already published in the Boston Review, A Public Space, Conjunctions, and the Brooklyn Rail and has become a poetic lightning rod in the East Village and other avant-garde settings. Here, in The Late Parade, he presents 48 poems that “fire dance around meaning itself” (Boston Review) yet help to redefine the modernist vision for the twenty-first-century with near-demonic displays of sonorous density and manic verbal fertility. This dazzling debut collection will be sure to “cause a commotion” (Timothy Donnelly).
112 pages, Hardcover
First published June 17, 2013
About the author
Adam Fitzgerald
39 books54 followersAdam Fitzgerald is a New York City based poet, editor and teacher. He is founding editor of the poetry journal Maggy. In 2007, he completed a Masters while editing two unpublished essays of John Ashbery on W.H. Auden and Henry Green at Boston University’s Editorial Institute. In 2010, he received his MFA from Columbia University’s School of the Arts in Poetry. Recent poems have appeared or are forthcoming in A Public Space, Boston Review, Conjunctions, The Brooklyn Rail, and elsewhere. Currently, he adjunct professes in literature and creative writing at Rutgers University and The New School. He lives in a pea-sized studio in the East Village. His debut collection of poetry, The Late Parade, will be published by W.W. Norton’s Liveright imprint in June 2013.
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Displaying 1 - 11 of 11 reviews
June 12, 2013
To be on the up and up, the many stars, supernovas or still shining, come out and are awarded by me for the luminosity in the syntax, diction, and creative dill of the writing. The verdit for me , however, is still out if the stars are long-snuffed celestial word-workings garnered prostrate from the writer's writing cheekiness or, to quote a few examples from the author's "iness" predilection, are linguistic star-fires that cook with some serious kerosine: "sleepiness, mineralness, niceness, trustiness (the word choice I actually trust the least, ironically). Both these wonderments that I have may be more of the writer's predecessors than of the oomph in the writing.
With this first volume, maybe there is still a plunder of "juvenilia" to swashbuckle in regard to the author's development of object, subject, setting and overall control of creating the reader as much as the reader creates the writing as he or she reads the poems. To wax way intellectually off-the-charts stick-up-the-ass, the issue can be summarized by giving a 5 cent version of Harold Bloom's, The Anxiety of Influence. As Bloom puts in the that little tome, the misreading of an influential writer's impact on the poet's writing invigorates and initiates the younger poets poetic style... Ashbery misreading Stevens as one of Blooms key examples, and most relevant to this text.
The poet, Mr. Fitzgerald, has yet to fully immerse himself in his misreading of his poetic fore "figures" (although many are forefathers). Long established masters John Ashbery/James Schuyler (although the Jane Frilicher color and certainty of outlines impressionistic in there thereness, yet ephemeral embodiness that one reads and sees of both these artists works is not fully evolved yet in the "parade") need the inside out writing turned inside out, rather than defaulting to the Ashbery, i.e. "To write about one thing, you must first write about another." A great first line, original (not such an important point), but pure homage to the Ashes Buried in all the soot and silt and stammer that arrives from Mr. Fitzgerald's always disembodied poems held together by alluding and colluding without any diluting of the text, subtext, liminal, aporiatic, lacuna, sapphic, dash of this and that hiding of the human, personal, political, sexual, emotional, and intellectual agenda in any of his poems.
Deeper in the influence anxiety zone for Mr. Fitzgerald is Timothy Donnelly. Donnelly's work is apparent to the Man-Max and My Own Private Idaho nth degree. (Richard Howard sits on his couch next the poet more as an intellectual, editor, translator influence because, no offense to Richard... I mean Howard's a great writer, but on the whole his poetic writings are William Morris flypaper stuck to your eyeballs as you read it), and lesser so to the anxiety is Jon Yau, and even a smidgeon lesser so toward any anxiety are the tautness found in Mark Strand and Louise Gluck.
As a whole I will leave out the big boys and girls, Crane, Auden, Bishop, James (plus art critic Robert Hughes) from my critical reflection about the anxiety in the influence for the book. There is much work to be done to do what Ashbery did with Stevens when tackling these writers as the poets one misreads to make his or her poetic style, voice etc.
Overall, I entirely recommend the book, for its language and buried gems of wisdom, and pithiness of jocular (itch and scratch) humor. And certainly, with the facility of language Mr. Fitzegerald commands, any reader will be smitten by many keen ideas and emotional zingers "forged from the smithy of the soul" from a bright, young poet. My caveat or my challenge for the next book or pieces to Mr. Fitzgerald would be to write to expose first and to let the postmodern, Derridian, Lacanian, Saussurean, Barthes, and De Mann doublespeak happenstance itself rather than be courted.
With this first volume, maybe there is still a plunder of "juvenilia" to swashbuckle in regard to the author's development of object, subject, setting and overall control of creating the reader as much as the reader creates the writing as he or she reads the poems. To wax way intellectually off-the-charts stick-up-the-ass, the issue can be summarized by giving a 5 cent version of Harold Bloom's, The Anxiety of Influence. As Bloom puts in the that little tome, the misreading of an influential writer's impact on the poet's writing invigorates and initiates the younger poets poetic style... Ashbery misreading Stevens as one of Blooms key examples, and most relevant to this text.
The poet, Mr. Fitzgerald, has yet to fully immerse himself in his misreading of his poetic fore "figures" (although many are forefathers). Long established masters John Ashbery/James Schuyler (although the Jane Frilicher color and certainty of outlines impressionistic in there thereness, yet ephemeral embodiness that one reads and sees of both these artists works is not fully evolved yet in the "parade") need the inside out writing turned inside out, rather than defaulting to the Ashbery, i.e. "To write about one thing, you must first write about another." A great first line, original (not such an important point), but pure homage to the Ashes Buried in all the soot and silt and stammer that arrives from Mr. Fitzgerald's always disembodied poems held together by alluding and colluding without any diluting of the text, subtext, liminal, aporiatic, lacuna, sapphic, dash of this and that hiding of the human, personal, political, sexual, emotional, and intellectual agenda in any of his poems.
Deeper in the influence anxiety zone for Mr. Fitzgerald is Timothy Donnelly. Donnelly's work is apparent to the Man-Max and My Own Private Idaho nth degree. (Richard Howard sits on his couch next the poet more as an intellectual, editor, translator influence because, no offense to Richard... I mean Howard's a great writer, but on the whole his poetic writings are William Morris flypaper stuck to your eyeballs as you read it), and lesser so to the anxiety is Jon Yau, and even a smidgeon lesser so toward any anxiety are the tautness found in Mark Strand and Louise Gluck.
As a whole I will leave out the big boys and girls, Crane, Auden, Bishop, James (plus art critic Robert Hughes) from my critical reflection about the anxiety in the influence for the book. There is much work to be done to do what Ashbery did with Stevens when tackling these writers as the poets one misreads to make his or her poetic style, voice etc.
Overall, I entirely recommend the book, for its language and buried gems of wisdom, and pithiness of jocular (itch and scratch) humor. And certainly, with the facility of language Mr. Fitzegerald commands, any reader will be smitten by many keen ideas and emotional zingers "forged from the smithy of the soul" from a bright, young poet. My caveat or my challenge for the next book or pieces to Mr. Fitzgerald would be to write to expose first and to let the postmodern, Derridian, Lacanian, Saussurean, Barthes, and De Mann doublespeak happenstance itself rather than be courted.
July 5, 2013
I was one of the ten lucky people who won a copy of Adam Fitzgerald's "The Late Parade".
A bit of background about me—I am not a poetry reader. Most poetry I have read in my lifetime have dealt with privilege, oppression, and racism. My favorites include "Zami" by Audre Lorde and works by Nayyirah Waheed.
This book is uncharted territory for me, because Mr. Fitzgerald doesn't talk about those subjects, and his voice is certainly different from Ms. Lorde's and Ms. Waheed's. Mr. Fitzgerald's writing is flowery, full with crisp language and obscure words or references. As such, I found it difficult to follow along with the text.
It occurred to me upon reaching the "Notes" section, however, that perhaps I am not meant to understand these references. Just as the Spanish text in Gloria Anzaldúa's "Borderlands" are meant to be understood by Spanish speakers, perhaps "The Late Parade" is meant to be understood by Mr. Fitzgerald's friends, family, and colleagues. After all, this is his début collection of poems, presumably originally written for himself and his acquaintances, only now to be shared with the public.
For all of its obfuscations, "The Late Parade" lives up to its claims of minimalism and modernism. The cover has crisp lines, sharp colors, and simplistic white text naming the book and the author. The design of the book is inviting and novel.
The book's typeset, too, is simple and clean. (I generally expect nothing less from W.W. Norton, the book's publisher.) It is clear that every aesthetic detail was purposeful. One poem is written landscape-style, in order to fit the long stanzas fully along the long-edge of the book. This form of design allows for a rich and interactive experience with the book.
I thank Goodreads, W.W. Norton, and Mr. Fitzgerald for the free book and the opportunity to have experienced "The Late Parade". I am honored and grateful to have been a winning recipient of the publication.
A bit of background about me—I am not a poetry reader. Most poetry I have read in my lifetime have dealt with privilege, oppression, and racism. My favorites include "Zami" by Audre Lorde and works by Nayyirah Waheed.
This book is uncharted territory for me, because Mr. Fitzgerald doesn't talk about those subjects, and his voice is certainly different from Ms. Lorde's and Ms. Waheed's. Mr. Fitzgerald's writing is flowery, full with crisp language and obscure words or references. As such, I found it difficult to follow along with the text.
It occurred to me upon reaching the "Notes" section, however, that perhaps I am not meant to understand these references. Just as the Spanish text in Gloria Anzaldúa's "Borderlands" are meant to be understood by Spanish speakers, perhaps "The Late Parade" is meant to be understood by Mr. Fitzgerald's friends, family, and colleagues. After all, this is his début collection of poems, presumably originally written for himself and his acquaintances, only now to be shared with the public.
For all of its obfuscations, "The Late Parade" lives up to its claims of minimalism and modernism. The cover has crisp lines, sharp colors, and simplistic white text naming the book and the author. The design of the book is inviting and novel.
The book's typeset, too, is simple and clean. (I generally expect nothing less from W.W. Norton, the book's publisher.) It is clear that every aesthetic detail was purposeful. One poem is written landscape-style, in order to fit the long stanzas fully along the long-edge of the book. This form of design allows for a rich and interactive experience with the book.
I thank Goodreads, W.W. Norton, and Mr. Fitzgerald for the free book and the opportunity to have experienced "The Late Parade". I am honored and grateful to have been a winning recipient of the publication.
August 6, 2013
There's no doubt that Adam Fitzgerald is possessed of enormous genius. Way to go, dude! You make light work of heavy light. A super pleasure with just the right amount of challenge. A touch more sandpaper and you'd be too perfect to bear.
June 2, 2017
In the poets one words
"Assymetrical styles wake up asserting their charm,
a ridged wrist-flick of completion. So a man leaves
a theater, dreams aloud his bowtie mate, fashioning
a virile something-or-another. It begins a rain droplet,
a sedge: something full of oblong blisses, remote as
dovetails pitter-patters mute inside..."
This is a stylish, lyrical frequently nonsensical book of poetry. The poems are beautiful and flowing but only a few of them are discernable enough from the wash of nice language to stick in my memory.
The first poem, which I take to be the books thesis is excellent
Cathedral
To write about one thing, you must first write about another
To speak of the death of King Charles V,
you must first speak of the ho Chi Minh Dynasty.
To understand the rotund ministries of, say, moonlight,
you must first be blind, and understand fencing.
As for me, I understand discomfort. It falls
in the pinched, early blue bow light of dawn.
I speak often and only erringly about football,
racket clubs, and the general way of the world.
You go out for coffee. You come back another person.
This is honest, reflective, ironic poetry grappling with the intimidating complexity of knowledge. Its tight and cohesive, it has a little button line. I love it.
Mostly these elements are lost in the rest, a process the worst jacket blurb descirbes as "Released from the plod of workaday logics and handed over to the flow of their own becoming", which is a bullshit sentence describing a terrible notion, that making sense is common and banal and poets aspire to a more romantic mode of thinking than mere mortals. This is why there's a good reason to think poets are assholes. Thinking is hard and artists who disdain it probably do so because they don't like hard work rather than that they think it's beneath them.
But I don't think Fitzgerald necessarily follows that philosophy, even though its on his book jacket. I could discover an inner logic in many of my favourite of his pieces "Phattafacia Stupenda" "Soviet Pastoral" and much of the long-form title Poem "The Last Parade" . I'll even grant that there's more unifying themes and stories in many of the poems that I simply didn't understand at first reading, because Fitzgerald certainly demonstrates a deep and genuine love of English letters that dwarfs my own.
You see that in stanzas like
One spring patio is for rodeos
niggled with iodine figures, weaved
tapestries inside vast Tuileries
But that reminds me, how exactly
do words form brittle histories
From Last Parade.
Throughout his dexterity towards form and language are apparent, and nothing is jarring or insipid or trite. In fact, many of the pieces are witty and moving, but never enough to overcome the aimless, entropic contents.
"Assymetrical styles wake up asserting their charm,
a ridged wrist-flick of completion. So a man leaves
a theater, dreams aloud his bowtie mate, fashioning
a virile something-or-another. It begins a rain droplet,
a sedge: something full of oblong blisses, remote as
dovetails pitter-patters mute inside..."
This is a stylish, lyrical frequently nonsensical book of poetry. The poems are beautiful and flowing but only a few of them are discernable enough from the wash of nice language to stick in my memory.
The first poem, which I take to be the books thesis is excellent
Cathedral
To write about one thing, you must first write about another
To speak of the death of King Charles V,
you must first speak of the ho Chi Minh Dynasty.
To understand the rotund ministries of, say, moonlight,
you must first be blind, and understand fencing.
As for me, I understand discomfort. It falls
in the pinched, early blue bow light of dawn.
I speak often and only erringly about football,
racket clubs, and the general way of the world.
You go out for coffee. You come back another person.
This is honest, reflective, ironic poetry grappling with the intimidating complexity of knowledge. Its tight and cohesive, it has a little button line. I love it.
Mostly these elements are lost in the rest, a process the worst jacket blurb descirbes as "Released from the plod of workaday logics and handed over to the flow of their own becoming", which is a bullshit sentence describing a terrible notion, that making sense is common and banal and poets aspire to a more romantic mode of thinking than mere mortals. This is why there's a good reason to think poets are assholes. Thinking is hard and artists who disdain it probably do so because they don't like hard work rather than that they think it's beneath them.
But I don't think Fitzgerald necessarily follows that philosophy, even though its on his book jacket. I could discover an inner logic in many of my favourite of his pieces "Phattafacia Stupenda" "Soviet Pastoral" and much of the long-form title Poem "The Last Parade" . I'll even grant that there's more unifying themes and stories in many of the poems that I simply didn't understand at first reading, because Fitzgerald certainly demonstrates a deep and genuine love of English letters that dwarfs my own.
You see that in stanzas like
One spring patio is for rodeos
niggled with iodine figures, weaved
tapestries inside vast Tuileries
But that reminds me, how exactly
do words form brittle histories
From Last Parade.
Throughout his dexterity towards form and language are apparent, and nothing is jarring or insipid or trite. In fact, many of the pieces are witty and moving, but never enough to overcome the aimless, entropic contents.
March 21, 2014
This a brilliant book- The Map and the title poem shine but it is a book as a whole that demands (and will be granted) future consideration and enjoyment...the haziness of our walk drawn in precise and clear lines and, what's more, for these times...for all that Fitzgerald has been compared to Crane or Ashbery (and that is fair play...maybe lazy), the art never cowers at its influences: it fissions off and up and in and out... !
December 31, 2015
Get your dictionary out. The poems in Adam Fitzgerald's The Late Parade are sprinkled with lots of out-of-the-ordinary-not-often-used words, words I used to know the meaning of but then forgot. Aside from that, the sound each piece creates drives this collection. It's a study in word play, so even if you're lost, you can tag along to the sounds to get through.
September 2, 2013
Each poem is like a chocolate truffle very rich and truly inspiring
October 11, 2014
Esoteric and pretentious. Two stars for the first poem in the collection and none for the remainder.
December 22, 2016
Ashbery in a funhouse, drunk and ready to vomit.
October 3, 2013
I found it recondite and excessively sententious. Doesn't do it for me.
October 31, 2014
For me, this just didn't find that balance between language and content that's often so hard to pull off in poetry; the former kept getting in the way of the latter.
Displaying 1 - 11 of 11 reviews