![]() But other things are possible too, and it’s worth considering, amid the hurricane of pages, what still, small poems one might have waited for. There are so many books, we think, with so many lines that say so many things at such length - how could any of this be marginal? Surely the center of this storm of words must be magnificent. But we are far from Frost today and deep into an anxiety of overproduction. Young publishes more than most, but even a writer like Louise Glück, who is routinely described as acetic, has amassed a page total that dwarfs that of Robert Frost. Why is he doing it? Maybe because nearly everyone is. Young is a gifted writer he surely knows this isn’t helpful. For instance, you have metaphors that don’t cohere.Perfunctory poeticisms are attached to things as banal as sausage. what you get, when you’re a traditional lyric poet publishing at this rate, is slackness. But if Young’s work gives you reason to hope, it also makes you think the poetry world’s precarious position may be hurting some of its strongest talents. At his best, Young reminds us that poetry’s middle voice remains a resonant instrument. But he can throw salt in the pot when it’s needed. ![]() ![]() Young is an expansive, almost relaxed writer blistering intensity isn’t his signature. Stones becomes an ode to Youngs home places and his dear departed, and to what of them-of us-poetry can save. ![]() The voice is casual, although you’ll never doubt you’re reading poetry. ![]()
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