Dean Young (1) (1955–)

I've liked Dean Young's poetry for a long time. You can count on being surprised and provoked when you read him. He's often been called a Surrealist, and he embraces it. One poem here is titled, "Why I Haven't 'Outgrown' Surrealism No Matter What That Moron Reviewer Wrote". Ha!

What makes this collection a bit different is that Shock by Shock is his first since he received a heart transplant. Four months in a hospital recovering.

the body
is a vessel of flame-flicker
and even in dreams I say my show more lover’s
name so picture me for verisimilitude
made entirely of sunflowers but keep
the long scar in the center of my chest,
under it a grim doctrine frolics
on a dissecting table. I who have been
restored by cardiac shocks, dropped
into morning wanton and struck.

“…When / you are waiting for a new heart / you are waiting for someone to die.” (”How I got Through My Last Day on the Transplant List”)

…the god
. . . likes the theater, the gowns and masks
the rib-cage splitter and ceremonial
reaching into the chest
and a stranger, a boy really,
the heart of a reckless, generous boy
lifted from its cooler
and sutured into a carnal afterlife,
rose by rose, ladder by ladder,
shock by shock by shock.

He's a master of great titles and provocative lines. From "Street of Blind Knife Throwers" (ha!), one I took to be about poets:

One thought she was a genius for putting
9 commas in a row. Do not be too quick
to embrace an alternative energy source,
let fracking be your guide. Some things
can only be found when you hide. Sometimes
it's like a fistfight to decide who's
the biggest pacifist.

One of my favorites in this collection, with another great title:

Crash Test Dummies of an Imperfect God

Because we are so stupid,
the prizes in Cracker Jacks are now paper
so they can be swallowed, ladders
spackled with warnings. No getting
within a hundred feet of Stonehenge because
everyone wants to hack off a souvenir
and the way home is clogged to one lane
so whoever wants to can stare into a pothole
until coming up with a grievance. I’d vote
the greatest accomplishment of mankind
is the pickle spear. God created paradise
to tell us Get out! which is why we probably
created God who doesn’t much like being created
by ilk like us. No wonder it’s pediatrics
every morning and toxicology by happy hour.
Is it all in the mind, the dirty, dirty mind?
Maybe God tried to turn you into a garbage can
so you could be lifted by the truck’s hydraulic
arms and banged empty. Maybe a snow cone
so you could be sticky-sweet and dropped.
Maybe a genital-faced bivalve to be dashed
with Tabasco and eaten whole or, to his glory,
produce a pearl.

* * * *

Hard not to be inspired by this guy. show less

Poetry paints nothing but it splashes
color, flushed, swooning, echolating
and often associated with flight
as in Keats's viewless wings of Poesy,
a weird statement. The wings can't see?
Are invisible like Wonder Woman's plane?
Poetry is a good provider of the strange.

(From the poem Non-Apologia)

In his Fall Higher collection of poems Dean Young once again is a good provider of the strange. He's often referred to as "one of our most inventive poets", and that's what I like best about him - his show more ability to make us look at the world with a fresh eye, and often laugh at it, through his sometimes stream of consciousness connections and laser-true commentary. In this one he seems more bilious than in previous collections; those feeling chirpily sanguine (phrase cribbed from Richard) may find themselves more morose and disgruntled after reading this one.

In this poem, titled Undertow, he has the sea thinking about itself with a "sudden out-loud laughter snort":

Oh, what the
hell, I probably drove myself crazy
thinks the sea, kissing all those strangers,
forgiving them no matter what, liars
in confession, vomiters of plastics
and fossil fuels but what a stricken
elixir I've become even to my becalmed depths,
while through its head swim a million
fishes seemingly made of light
eating each other.

He knows he can be hard to follow. At one point he says, "Try to stay with me, okay?" (Wolf Lying in Snow). And he can be silly. "I like napkins folded into swans/ because I like wiping my mouth on swans." (Commencement Address). He can be romantic:

because of you I'm talking to crickets, clouds,
confiding in a cat. Everyone says
Come to your senses, and I do, of you.
Every touch electric, every taste you,
every smell, even burning sugar, every
cry and laugh. Toothpicked samples
at the farmer's market, every melon,
plum, I come undone, undone.

(Delphiniums in a Window Box).

And for me he can be profound. After wondering over our fallacies in some detail, he concludes:

We have absolutely no proof
god isn't an insect
rubbing her hind legs together to sing.
Or boring into us like a yellow jacket
into a fallen, overripe pear.
Or an assassin bug squatting over us,
shoving a proboscis right through
our breastplate then sipping.
How wonderful our poisons don't kill her.

(Selected Recent and New Errors). Yikes! That makes it hard to be chirpily sanguine, but it sure snaps the eyes open. show less

Reading Dean Young's poetry is probably the most paradox-like experience I've ever had in my life. His poetry is surreal - made up of many concrete images that can be so bizarre to visualize. The strange thing here is that nevertheless, these wild images are accompanied by a feeling that the poet knows you. To me, he really knows how to put into words those fleeting feelings that are very much present though we may not know fully how to describe them. His daring images capture those show more sensations we can't quite, and in just a perfect way that even though you may be reading the most bizarre poem you've read in your life, something resonates with you because you know he put into words a feeling you haven't figured out how to describe yet. His poetry is also filled with humor and wit and this is just a fantastic collection overall. show less

Dean Young has a nimble imagination, big, honest ideas, and an obvious love of words. This slight and potent volume starts with a poetic communique to the Reader:

"Be we just passing

figments in this waterhead world or
is there hope that you and I may leave

some trace more permanent, scarlet,
tooth-marked, at least upon each other's heart?"

- and ends with a beautiful thought on fragility, hope and forever:

"Funny word, forever. You can put it at the end
of almost any sentence and feel better show more about
yourself, about how you've worked in a spray
of sparks accomplishing almost nothing
and feel that's exactly what the gods
intended, look at the galaxies, spilled
milk, their lust and retrograde whims."

He's truly one of the most resonant and impressive contemporary poets I've read. Of course, poetry is a very relative thing, and one man's resonance could be another's indifference. But if these excerpts intrigue you, I'd say you should check this out. show less