By Dave Smith
Dave Smith's 16th poetry assortment chronicles the arc of virtually sixty years residing within the American South. From dusty sawmills to the ever present Waffle residence, Hawks on Wires levels either mortal and comedian dramas that talk to the poet's autumnal reputation of himself and the South.Poems of becoming up engaged with the folk of the coast and woodlands--boatmen, hunters, crabbers, sawyers, and tough-mouthed waitresses--celebrate the as soon as robust yet now tenuous threads of community.Traveling throughout the latter 20th century, Smith offers concerns of kinfolk, intercourse, and race in the course of a turbulent and old period in southern background. Assassinations, withdrawal of spiritual prohibitions, violent cultural convulsions, or even the reduced that means of the be aware ''southern'' shake the poet's own identity.Smith makes use of the language of a typical guy looking which means because the reminiscence of occasions, carried over an entire life, now begs for clarification. regardless of the inevitable displacements and disappointments of identification, which stay mysterious, Smith reveals optimism in existence.
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Extra info for Hawks on Wires: Poems, 2005-2010
The beat oozed from open car window to car window, each bearing a tray the waitress tilts and locks. Then a hand slides out dropping change as she twirls, who’s also dead, her flying ponytail electric, and just then the pink Cadillac, and the black faces as glass smoothes slowly down, smoke hazing inside. That’s all it takes. I can hear knuckles crack, the words like flecks of spit in summer air, like looping bats visible in high moth-swirls of light. But nothing happened the way everybody thinks.
A great wooden box full of what she calls his toys, the time-quieted Saab, hunched, neighbor’s gift, relic of a tractor, Ford, clean, bony, ready when snow ends, when green tips appear, two dark-hulled survivors, convertible, coupe, tarped to wait like parents in dust-moted foyer where some story, stilled now, is underway night after day after night. The lightless ease is welcome, pastoral like a ship’s inside, odd bits of sound he likes to stand in, feeling beams unknown old ones laid against time, this, then what’s coming, cradled hours, the wood whining.
Boathouse ivy hung in your hair, roping us close, as I settled with you, love, in wet grass, slick and cold like the top of the Hatteras yacht where, trespassers in stars once, we had been diving, then making love, and then came night crawl of lights with friends, that house party, a marsh by Back River, traffic along Victory Boulevard. Voices on the patio doubted our future forty years ago, near the Air Force base. Now-dead, their babies unborn, or asleep, married, joking. Steaks sizzled on the cooker, sweat on beer cans.