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After All: Last Poems, by William Matthews
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This is the touchingly entitled collection of poems William Matthews had completed shortly before dying, just after his fifty-fifth birthday in November 1997. Is death ever entirely unexpected? Not, perhaps, by a collector of experience, a gourmet of language, who can refer to "death flickering in you like a pilot light." In AFTER ALL, Matthews seems to be looking his last on all things lovely: music, food and wine, love. In the stunning central poem, "Dire Cure," which forms a kind of spine to the book, he describes the remarkable implications of the "heroic measures" that saved the life and restored the health of his wife from "a children's cancer (doesn't that possessive break your heart?)." He evokes the death of his favorite jazz musician, Charles Mingus. He speaks of cats, dogs, pigs, sheep, of the past, of history, of joys proposed, but especially, with his characteristic relaxed wit, of language and its quiddities: "My love says I think too damn much and maybe she's right." After All is the last word from one of the most pensive and delicious of all our poets.
- Sales Rank: #2568148 in eBooks
- Published on: 2012-08-23
- Released on: 2012-08-23
- Format: Kindle eBook
From Publishers Weekly
What sets Matthews apart from other pleasant, autobiographically inclined poets is that he doesn't emote by rote, but feels sharply and smartly, transforming his sometimes trite scenarios into plain, careful insights. In this last volume, prepared before his death last year at the age of 55, Matthews gathers the stuff of life?car alarms and collegiate days, hospital misery and divorce. His laconic humor is ever at the ready: At a job interview, the poet dodges questions by speaking "fluent Fog." In Scotland, he wonders about the "astonishing sheep with canoe-shaped ears," and is pleased to learn from a shepherd that they are particularly stupid. Elsewhere, he recalls bringing "back a tall bubbin for the nice lady," who turns out to be "Martha Mitchell (wife of John/ Mitchell, soon to be Nixon's attorney general)." He considers such meetings proof that we are "by being born, a hostage/ to history" and deadpans, "Yes, there's cure for youth, but it's fatal." The very best lines combine Matthews's affability with trenchant turns on himself or his beloveds: "I like divorce. I love to compose/ letters of resignation" or "I saw her fierce privacy,/ like a gnarled luxuriant tree all hung/ with disappointments." The all too human singularity of these poems only underlines Matthews irreplacability.
Copyright 1998 Reed Business Information, Inc.
From Library Journal
Since Matthews was one of the few contemporary poets who really knew how to make the vernacular sing, it's sad to think that these are his last poems. Fittingly, some of them are autumnal, but they range widely and brightly from Prague in 1419 to a Caribbean island in 1967 to Martha Mitchell, Finn sheep, and a poetry reading at West Point. A lovely finale.
Copyright 1999 Reed Business Information, Inc.
From Booklist
Sadly, these are Matthews' last poems. And death does, indeed, strut through these aggressively compact compositions, each so perfectly crafted and unerringly aimed that they hit with the force of lightning or a breath-stealing kiss. Matthews ponders such silly things as the antics of a cat or the delectable absurdities of euphemisms with slyly serious intent, then faces rage and illness head-on. "Dire Cure" tracks the civil war between cancer and chemicals within the body of his resilient and finally triumphant wife, and the stunning "Mingus in Shadow" protests against the disease that invaded and destroyed the formidable musician Matthews often cited as his muse. Ornery and recalcitrant, Matthews is reluctant to be nice, or play poet in public, or pay overt tribute to beauty or love. No, he seems to say, it's better to confess to our less than noble thoughts and deeds, but only in language so exquisite that its brilliancy, rather than any intimations of human failings, is what is remembered. Donna Seaman
Most helpful customer reviews
9 of 10 people found the following review helpful.
This, too, is human
By Charles Ward (ward1234@aol.com)
I write out of a visceral reaction to the reviewer who suggested that William Matthews poems are somehow "light weight." While it is tempting to make a wisecrack, or worse, I will refrain in the spirt of Bill Matthews who, upon hearing such a remark would have merely clucked his tongue and smiled, as if to say, "this, too, is human."
Those familiar with Bill Matthews relish his poems, which seem light, but, upon closer reading, muse upon the most grave, the most human, of subjects.
Rest in peace, Bill. You are not forgotten.
2 of 2 people found the following review helpful.
a question for our reader from cincinnati
By A Customer
Dear reader from cincinnati... Say, istn't the "fog on cat's feet" from Carl Sandburg? Anyway, I find Matthews a great poet. And as a musician I enjoy his sensitivity to that art, especially jazz.
2 of 2 people found the following review helpful.
A Poetic Mastermind
By the cartisian
I love his poems. He is so tacticly sarcastic. He brings humour to everyday life. I recomend his poetry to everyone who loves making fun of the essence of life itself.
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