Breath

Informationen zum Autor Philip Levine Klappentext Always a poet of memory and invention! Philip Levine looks back at his own life as well as the adventures of his ancestors! his relatives! and his friends! and at their rites of passage into an America of victories and betrayals. He transports us back to the street where he was born "early in the final industrial century to help us envision an America he's known from the 1930s to the present. His subjects include his brothers! a great-uncle who gave up on America and returned to czarist Russia! a father who survived unspeakable losses! the artists and musicians who inspired him! and fellow workers at the factory who shared the best and worst of his coming of age. Throughout the collection Levine rejoices in song-Dinah Washington wailing from a jukebox in midtown Manhattan; Della Daubien hymning on the crosstown streetcar; Max Roach and Clifford Brown at a forgotten Detroit jazz palace; the prayers offered to God by an immigrant uncle dreaming of the Judean hills; the hoarse notes of a factory worker who! completing another late shift! serenades the sleeping streets. Like all of Levine's poems! these are a testament to the durability of love! the strength of the human spirit! the persistence of life in the presence of the coming dark. Leseprobe The Lesson Early in the final industrial century on the street where I was born lived a doctor who smoked black shag and walked his dog each morning as he muttered to himself in a language only the dog knew. The doctor had saved my brother's life, the story went, reached two stained fingers down his throat to extract a chicken bone and then bowed to kiss the ring--encrusted hand of my beautiful mother, a young widow on the lookout for a professional. Years before, before the invention of smog, before Fluid Drive, the eight-hour day, the iron lung, I'd come into the world in a shower of industrial filth raining from the bruised sky above Detroit. Time did not stop. Mother married a bland wizard in clutch plates and drive shafts. My uncles went off to their world wars, and I began a career in root vegetables. Each morning, just as the dark expired, the corner church tolled its bells. Beyond the church an oily river ran both day and night and there along its banks I first conversed with the doctor and Waldo, his dog. "Young man," he said in words resembling English, "you would dress heavy for autumn, scarf, hat, gloves. Not to smoke," he added, "as I do." Eleven, small for my age but ambitious, I took whatever good advice I got, though I knew then what I know now: the past, not the future, was mine. If I told you he and I became pals even though I barely understood him, would you doubt me? Wakened before dawn by Catholic bells, I would dress in the dark -- remembering scarf, hat, gloves -- to make my way into the deserted streets to where Waldo and his master ambled the riverbank. Sixty-four years ago, and each morning is frozen in memory, each a lesson in what was to come. What was to come? you ask. This world as we have it, utterly unknowable, utterly unacceptable, utterly unlovable, the world we waken to each day with or without bells. The lesson was in his hands, one holding a cigarette, the other buried in blond dog fur, and in his words thick with laughter, hushed, incomprehensible, words that were sound only without sense, just as these must be. Staring into the moist eyes of my maestro, I heard the lost voices of creation running over stones as the last darkness sifted upward, voices saddened by the milky residue of machine shops and spangled with first light, discordant, harsh, but voices nonetheless. Zusammenfassung Always a poet of memory and inven...

Autorentext

Philip Levine

Klappentext

Always a poet of memory and invention, Philip Levine looks back at his own life as well as the adventures of his ancestors, his relatives, and his friends, and at their rites of passage into an America of victories and betrayals. He transports us back to the street where he was born "early in the final industrial century” to help us envision an America he's known from the 1930s to the present. His subjects include his brothers, a great-uncle who gave up on America and returned to czarist Russia, a father who survived unspeakable losses, the artists and musicians who inspired him, and fellow workers at the factory who shared the best and worst of his coming of age.

Throughout the collection Levine rejoices in song-Dinah Washington wailing from a jukebox in midtown Manhattan; Della Daubien hymning on the crosstown streetcar; Max Roach and Clifford Brown at a forgotten Detroit jazz palace; the prayers offered to God by an immigrant uncle dreaming of the Judean hills; the hoarse notes of a factory worker who, completing another late shift, serenades the sleeping streets.

Like all of Levine's poems, these are a testament to the durability of love, the strength of the human spirit, the persistence of life in the presence of the coming dark.

Leseprobe
The Lesson

Early in the final industrial century
on the street where I was born lived
a doctor who smoked black shag
and walked his dog each morning
as he muttered to himself in a language
only the dog knew. The doctor had saved
my brother’s life, the story went, reached
two stained fingers down his throat
to extract a chicken bone and then
bowed to kiss the ring--encrusted hand
of my beautiful mother, a young widow
on the lookout for a professional.
Years before, before the invention of smog,
before Fluid Drive, the eight-hour day,
the iron lung, I'd come into the world
in a shower of industrial filth raining
from the bruised sky above Detroit.
Time did not stop. Mother married
a bland wizard in clutch plates
and drive shafts. My uncles went off
to their world wars, and I began a career
in root vegetables. Each morning,
just as the dark expired, the corner church
tolled its bells. Beyond the church
an oily river ran both day and night
and there along its banks I first conversed
with the doctor and Waldo, his dog.
"Young man," he said in words
resembling English, "you would dress
heavy for autumn, scarf, hat, gloves.
Not to smoke," he added, "as I do."
Eleven, small for my age but ambitious,
I took whatever good advice I got,
though I knew then what I know
now: the past, not the future, was mine.
If I told you he and I became pals
even though I barely understood him,
would you doubt me? Wakened before dawn
by Catholic bells, I would dress
in the dark -- remembering scarf, hat, gloves --
to make my way into the deserted streets
to where Waldo and his master ambled
the riverbank. Sixty-four years ago,
and each morning is frozen in memory,
each a lesson in what was to come.
What was to come? you ask. This world
as we have it, utterly unknowable,
utterly unacceptable, utterly unlovable,
the world we waken to each day
with or without bells. The lesson was
in his hands, one holding a cigarette,
the other buried in blond dog fur, and in
his words thick with laughter, hushed,
incomprehensible, words that were sound
only without sense, just as these must be.
Staring into the moist eyes of my maestro,
I heard the lost voices of creation running
over stones as the last darkness sifted upward,
voices saddened by the milky residue
of machine shops and spangled with first light,
discordant, harsh, but voices nonetheless.