Say Uncle

Kay Ryan always speaks in a clear voice. With the acuity that I recall from a young soul gazing through creekwater at all the life that flows and hides under rocks.

This was the first book of Kay Ryan's poetry I ever read, and I couldn't put it down... and even once finished, I'm still picking it up to read over and soak up again.

lyrics of moral turpitude and musical agility (the brief lines of Kay Ryan maintain their integrity), and therein lies their beauty.

Transparent, yet fathomless as a crystal ball, these poems continue to speak after countless readings, not yet yielding up their secrets. Incredibly rich, they go down oh-so-easy, a verbal tiramisu. Small, yet amazingly dense, like gold nuggets. Impeccable logic, impeccable use of language. Gorgeous, and mysterious. Moving and inspiring. Kay Ryan delivers on William Carlos Williams' famous lines: It is difficult/to get the news from poems/yet men die every day/for lack/of what is found there.

These poems insist on their verticality as they run down the page. Their weight and glow however resides in little unexpected turns in meaning that place us squarrely in the thouroughly ambiguous world we live in. We are told that wasted time and other common negative experiences need to be accepted as maybe something like a musical pause, as crucial as the rest of the notes to the sound of the music. Reading these poems I can feel a connection with the anecdotes of Porchia or Francis Ponge's underrated work. Ryan's voice is totaly unique but I can't help recalling also Elisabeth Bishop and that marvelous poem about the little marvel stove, so full of forgiveness and yet cooly tight as a work of art.