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Lying in the River's Dark Bed: The Confluence of the Deadman and the Mad Angler
Lying in the River's Dark The Confluence of the Deadman and the Mad Angler by Michael Delp is a collection of fifty-six poems that brings together two characters Delp has been perfecting for Deadman and the Mad Angler. The Deadman, a spirit that constantly shifts, is one part troublemaker, one part truth-teller, and one part demon who demands respect. The Mad Angler, on the other hand, could be called the Mad Shaman or Mad Activist, as he speaks of the water and nature and then of the greed of man. While these two personas are distinct in the collection (highlighted beautifully in the unique double-sided book design) they also come together at times in perfect harmony.
The Deadman and the Mad Angler are walking contradictions―twin sons of different mothers. The Deadman is a trickster figure, a hive of contradictions. He can be killed but cannot die. He is supremely intelligent, yet is as dumb as a stone. He is an enigma to himself and to all others, yet he understands the origins and the meanings of the inner lives of all things. He is impossible to understand, yet somehow through his musings enlightenment occurs. His poems inspire contentedness, even though they might frighten you first in order to do so. The Mad Angler is more finely tuned, focused primarily on the environment. He exercises more restraint and resistance than his scattered brother, focusing on nature and on what is flowing in the water around him and inside of him. His voice is sure and firm on all things water related because he is as much river as person. The collection embraces these voices as separate and unique identities, while highlighting a center section called "Confluence," the place where these two come together to meditate on some of the most profound emotions evoked by the contemporary world.
Lying in the River's Dark Bed reflects the compatibilities and contradictions of the natural world. These ritualized poems are both funny and thought provoking and an example of persona writing at its best. Those interested in conversational poetry and environmental writing will be enthralled with this stirring yet soothing collection.
The Deadman and the Mad Angler are walking contradictions―twin sons of different mothers. The Deadman is a trickster figure, a hive of contradictions. He can be killed but cannot die. He is supremely intelligent, yet is as dumb as a stone. He is an enigma to himself and to all others, yet he understands the origins and the meanings of the inner lives of all things. He is impossible to understand, yet somehow through his musings enlightenment occurs. His poems inspire contentedness, even though they might frighten you first in order to do so. The Mad Angler is more finely tuned, focused primarily on the environment. He exercises more restraint and resistance than his scattered brother, focusing on nature and on what is flowing in the water around him and inside of him. His voice is sure and firm on all things water related because he is as much river as person. The collection embraces these voices as separate and unique identities, while highlighting a center section called "Confluence," the place where these two come together to meditate on some of the most profound emotions evoked by the contemporary world.
Lying in the River's Dark Bed reflects the compatibilities and contradictions of the natural world. These ritualized poems are both funny and thought provoking and an example of persona writing at its best. Those interested in conversational poetry and environmental writing will be enthralled with this stirring yet soothing collection.
- GenresPoetry
240 pages, Paperback
First published April 4, 2016
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June 23, 2016
[I had the honor of studying this author's work and introducing him.]
The first time I thought I would finally get to have an uninterrupted conversation with poet, essayist, and fiction author Mike Delp, was 6 years ago on the short drive between this building and Maddy’s Tavern—which was then called Gio’s. Up to that point, our relationship consisted of short sentences delivered between cadences of laughter—mostly Mike instigating, well, always Mike instigating—saying one thing or another as he passed my office on the way upstairs to his own.
“Jesus these kids,” he said one day. “Their faces. If they could see their own faces. I mean…they’re just so…[rakes hand down face]…Looking at them…it hurts…” and then he was off. “Get some artwork on the walls in here, would you Schultz?” he said another time, staring at my empty office. He disappeared before I had time for a retort, but the next day he brought me a world map and a vintage poster of our mutual friend and fellow author, Jack Driscoll (which still hangs in that office today).
I was the new Writer-in-Residence at Interlochen Arts Academy and Mike was…well, this being…this thing…this…there wasn’t time to think because we were done teaching for the day and before I knew it we were crunching across the packed snow to his car. I was finally ready to say something of significance—maybe ask him what he was writing or inquire about a book he was reading. But he cranked the keys in the ignition and Bob Dylan blared from the speakers, saying what I suppose Mike might have said if I’d had the chance to ask anything of import: “How does it FEEEEEL, to be on your own?”
Time passed and I learned how to talk to Mike, who was never really “Mike” but always “DELP”—one syllable, like the sound of a rock plunked into a deep lake. To talk to Delp, you had to keep moving (preferably outdoors, preferably on the water), you had to go to his river cabin, or you had to go to his office. I still remember an afternoon I knocked on his door with a flash fiction draft, which he let me read to him. I was still a little bit giddy with that new-draft high. There was one phrase in the story, describing a newborn baby with “beating, purple fists,” that he said took things too far. “The fists are already beating because their fists. Just let them do their job. ‘Beating’ is too much.”
I got rid of “beating” on the page, but to this day, when I take my descriptions too far, it’s Delp that I hear—beating in the back of my brain, telling me to tone it down. It’s a familiar sound; bluesy, almost— a slow, eddying beat…like a river moving patiently along. Like a good Bob Dylan song. Like the only sound the echo of Delp could ever make.
I wanted to use this introduction to tell you about Delp’s work, especially his new book of poems. But every time I sat down to write about Delp’s writing, that beating started up again in the back of my brain. I know better than to bother with overtures or analysis. All of that would be too much. All of that would ruin the fun. All of that would just make Delp turn up the volume on his car speakers yet again, Dylan crooning, “Ain’t No Use to Sit and Wonder Why, Babe...”
The first time I thought I would finally get to have an uninterrupted conversation with poet, essayist, and fiction author Mike Delp, was 6 years ago on the short drive between this building and Maddy’s Tavern—which was then called Gio’s. Up to that point, our relationship consisted of short sentences delivered between cadences of laughter—mostly Mike instigating, well, always Mike instigating—saying one thing or another as he passed my office on the way upstairs to his own.
“Jesus these kids,” he said one day. “Their faces. If they could see their own faces. I mean…they’re just so…[rakes hand down face]…Looking at them…it hurts…” and then he was off. “Get some artwork on the walls in here, would you Schultz?” he said another time, staring at my empty office. He disappeared before I had time for a retort, but the next day he brought me a world map and a vintage poster of our mutual friend and fellow author, Jack Driscoll (which still hangs in that office today).
I was the new Writer-in-Residence at Interlochen Arts Academy and Mike was…well, this being…this thing…this…there wasn’t time to think because we were done teaching for the day and before I knew it we were crunching across the packed snow to his car. I was finally ready to say something of significance—maybe ask him what he was writing or inquire about a book he was reading. But he cranked the keys in the ignition and Bob Dylan blared from the speakers, saying what I suppose Mike might have said if I’d had the chance to ask anything of import: “How does it FEEEEEL, to be on your own?”
Time passed and I learned how to talk to Mike, who was never really “Mike” but always “DELP”—one syllable, like the sound of a rock plunked into a deep lake. To talk to Delp, you had to keep moving (preferably outdoors, preferably on the water), you had to go to his river cabin, or you had to go to his office. I still remember an afternoon I knocked on his door with a flash fiction draft, which he let me read to him. I was still a little bit giddy with that new-draft high. There was one phrase in the story, describing a newborn baby with “beating, purple fists,” that he said took things too far. “The fists are already beating because their fists. Just let them do their job. ‘Beating’ is too much.”
I got rid of “beating” on the page, but to this day, when I take my descriptions too far, it’s Delp that I hear—beating in the back of my brain, telling me to tone it down. It’s a familiar sound; bluesy, almost— a slow, eddying beat…like a river moving patiently along. Like a good Bob Dylan song. Like the only sound the echo of Delp could ever make.
I wanted to use this introduction to tell you about Delp’s work, especially his new book of poems. But every time I sat down to write about Delp’s writing, that beating started up again in the back of my brain. I know better than to bother with overtures or analysis. All of that would be too much. All of that would ruin the fun. All of that would just make Delp turn up the volume on his car speakers yet again, Dylan crooning, “Ain’t No Use to Sit and Wonder Why, Babe...”
October 8, 2016
Won through a Goodreads Giveaway.
Told in two parts, the titular Mad Angler and Deadman, this book starts at each end and works its way toward the middle where the two characters meet. I enjoyed many of the poems, and the poems from each voice are somewhat distinct which is nice. The one issue I had was that I had trouble figuring out how to read it. Should all of the Mad Angler poems be read, then the Deadman or vice versa. Or perhaps you should alternate between each voice. That's the route I mostly chose, but the book is not symmetrical with there being more Deadman poems than Mad Angler poems so it didn't quite work out.
Told in two parts, the titular Mad Angler and Deadman, this book starts at each end and works its way toward the middle where the two characters meet. I enjoyed many of the poems, and the poems from each voice are somewhat distinct which is nice. The one issue I had was that I had trouble figuring out how to read it. Should all of the Mad Angler poems be read, then the Deadman or vice versa. Or perhaps you should alternate between each voice. That's the route I mostly chose, but the book is not symmetrical with there being more Deadman poems than Mad Angler poems so it didn't quite work out.
Displaying 1 - 2 of 2 reviews