Here are twenty-one poems yoked by thought and language to the filial bond and set in motion by the looming death of a cold and distant father. Whether physically absent or emotionally estranged, the father in these poems has always been a dominating, difficult presence in the lives of his the daughter run wild, the son who has disappointed, the wife he never did marry. Watching his father ebb away, the poet wonders at the man's ornery and cantankerous reality even in the face of death - and at his own newfound sense of power. But as well, he searches for a bond, an acknowledgment that he is his father's son.
Like Joyce and Tolstoy, Cornelius Eady is an American writer focusing largely on matters of race and society, His poetry often centers on jazz and blues, family life, violence, and societal problems stemming from questions of race and class. His poetry is often praised for its simple and approachable language.
This is my favorite Cornelius book. I read it when I was reading father books, trying to write the father poems in my novel in verse and this one stood out. What I admired -- the complexity of the father and the range of emotion dealing with loss, illness and death.
In a just world, I could give this book three and a half stars. I really liked his brief meditations on losing your father, and found a few of them moving. Problem is, these are not poems and most don't try to be. The pieces are just short prose reminiscences without the verbal qualities that elevate them into verse. With a couple of exceptions, these reminiscences are not even linated like verse. It is a good book, I recommend it, but it is not a book of poems.
I have heard Professor Eady speak and read his poetry twice via the Cave Canem Poetry event at the Westmoreland Museum of American Art. This book deals with his father's death and was particularly meaningful the year George's father died.
Uh-uh! he shoots back, eyes expanding to take in all God's dangers. This is how life, sharpened to a fine point, plunges into what we call hope. This is how death, if it's given enough time, irons out the small details.