Desire, by Frank Bidart

I just finished Frank Bidart’s book of poems, Desire. It’s amazing. His imagery and style are elegant and disturbing. His use outside texts, like pages from bios and Roman histories, from which to launch some of his poems are genius as they are complex and profound.

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It put me in mind of a old house. A book of poetry is this, and you enter it and are taken through it by a voice. There are several doors that greet you, there are several floors you ascend and descend. Every wall is covered with images. You take in scents, you hear the faintest music. And then you leave this ancient house. You recall it like a dream, knowing that the path you took was what the poet left for you to tread, a path that they themselves did not make. Poetry is breath-taking and life-giving.

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P.s. I found this in the discount aisle of a bookstore. Completely random.

P.s.s. His birthday is mine, May 27