New and selected poems

Review by Booklist Review

Renowned for the purity of his form and the exactness of his language and considered the one true heir to Wallace Stevens, Justice achieves a precision in his poems that aligns our hearts and minds like north draws a compass needle. This stirring volume replaces Justice's Selected Poems (1980) and includes poems from six earlier collections, beginning with Bad Dreams (1959) and continuing through The Sunset Maker (1987), but its crowning glory is a wealth of beautiful new work. Justice writes about sadness and loneliness, time and memory, and other forces greater than ourselves, such as the turn of the earth and the spread of shadows, the tread of history and the "circuits of the lost." In each poem, Justice's perfectly structured lines carry the current of his brooding emotions like tree limbs channel sap and bones contain the dance of corpuscles, and this sense of controlled motion is echoed in his favorite images: buses and trains, women looking out windows, the path the morning light takes through a house or across a garden. And always, Justice advises us to see "all things for what they are." --Donna Seaman

From Booklist, Copyright (c) American Library Association. Used with permission.

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Review by Publisher's Weekly Review

In 1959, Justice's first collection won the Lamont Prize; 20 years later his Selected Poems won the Pulitzer. In 1987, The Sunset Maker (poems and other works) appeared and A Donald Justice Reader, another selection of mostly poems, followed in 1991. This collection features works culled from six previous titles, plus a dozen uncollected poems, among them a pantoum and sonnet (among the 15 poems labeled new are three from Reader, with only minor changes here). Meter and rhyme are featured throughout. If not using‘often irregularly‘a classic form, Justice improvises one, melding language, meaning and rhythm in a seemingly seamless whole. A haunting four-part sequence, My South, epitomizes his work: two ``sonnets'' don't rhyme, two only irregularly; one has 13 lines; meters vary. Small revisions of 1991's South are telling, e.g., part 4, ``On the Train,'' now includes the lines ``unless/ We should pass down dim corridors again,'' which give a wider, mysterious meaning to the original, specific phrase ``darkened aisle.'' Until we see a complete collected works, this is probably the definitive Justice. (Sept.) (c) Copyright PWxyz, LLC. All rights reserved

(c) Copyright PWxyz, LLC. All rights reserved

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Review by Library Journal Review

One thinks of Justice as a steady, dependable poet. He doesn't rush poems into print, publishing a new collection roughly every ten years. His first book, The Summer Anniversaries, won the 1959 Lamont award; he received the Pulitzer Prize for his Selected Poems in 1980 (this volume replaces that earlier gathering). Unfortunately, his new poems are unimpressive. Very much a poet of memories, he tends to repeat himself rather than reach for new gray areas of the past. A new poem, "Vague Memory from Childhood," for example, seems a watered-down replica of his early gem, "Memory of a Porch" (omitted from this selection). His forms become stricter with each new book; despite a few unusual rhymes (golfers/Balthus or much/March) these teeter close to light verse. While poetry often focuses on trivialities, his frequent use of exclamation points is wholly uncalled for. The best Justice collection remains the least-celebrated Night Light. Recommended for larger poetry collections.‘Rochelle Ratner, formerly Poetry Editor, "Soho Weekly News," New York (c) Copyright 2010. Library Journals LLC, a wholly owned subsidiary of Media Source, Inc. No redistribution permitted.

(c) Copyright Library Journals LLC, a wholly owned subsidiary of Media Source, Inc. No redistribution permitted.

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Poem to Be Read at 3 A.M. (from "American Sketches") Excepting the diner On the outskirts The town of Ladora At 3 A.M. Was dark but For my headlights And up in One second-story room A single light Where someone Was sick or Perhaps reading As I drove past At seventy Not thinking This poemIs for whoever Had the light on Pantoum of the Great Depression Our lives avoided tragedy Simply by going on and on, Without end and with little apparent meaning. Oh, there were storms and small catastrophes. Simply by going on and on We managed. No need for the heroic. Oh, there were storms and small catastrophes. I don't remember all the particulars. We managed. No need for the heroic. There were the usual celebrations, the usual sorrows. I don't remember all the particulars. Across the fence, the neighbors were our chorus. There were the usual celebrations, the usual sorrows. Thank god no one said anything in verse. The neighbors were our only chorus, And if we suffered we kept quiet about it. At no time did anyone say anything in verse. It was the ordinary pities and fears consumed us, And if we suffered we kept quiet about it. No audience would ever know our story. It was the ordinary pities and fears consumed us. We gathered on porches; the moon rose; we were poor. What audience would ever know our story? Beyond our windows shone the actual world. We gathered on porches; the moon rose; we were poor. And time went by, drawn by slow horses. Somewhere beyond our windows shone the world. The Great Depression had entered our souls like fog. And time went by, drawn by slow horses. We did not ourselves know what the end was. The Great Depression had entered our souls like fog. We had our flaws, perhaps a few private virtues. But we did not ourselves know what the end was. People like us simply go on. We have our flaws, perhaps a few private virtues, But it is by blind chance only that we escape tragedy. And there is no plot in that; it is devoid of poetry. From the Trade Paperback edition. Excerpted from New and Selected Poetry by Donald Justice All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.

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