I love hearing your dreams Poems

Matthew Zapruder, 1967-

Book - 2024

"From one of contemporary poetry's most playful and original minds, an enchanting and harrowing journey through the landscape of dreams and twenty-first-century hopes and disillusions."--Dust jacket Flap.

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Subjects
Genres
poetry
Poetry
Published
New York : Scribner 2024.
Language
English
Main Author
Matthew Zapruder, 1967- (author)
Edition
First Scribner hardcover edition
Physical Description
xi, 110 pages ; 22 cm
ISBN
9781668059807
9781668059814
  • I love hearing your dreams
  • It was summer. The wind blew
  • My grandmother's dictionary
  • Thoughts on punctuation
  • Two sleeps
  • Bad bear
  • Dead flowers
  • Tell me why
  • The locksmith
  • Poems for Rup Kaur
  • Peoria
  • Jury duty
  • Poem for Jean Follain
  • King oak
  • Of Horace
  • Poem for a suicide
  • Dear pink flower
  • The death poems of Ulalume Gonzàez de L̤en
  • Supreme despair song
  • Yogurt park
  • Gown
  • For young poets
  • Poem for Robert Desnos
  • Thus
  • Tourmaline
  • Sunflower poem
  • The evening meeting
  • La plague
  • All April
  • Sundays
  • The Super Bowl
  • Gentle death poem
  • Poem for Witold Gombrowicz
  • I see you
  • My phones
  • The last poem
  • Trains in Japan
  • The elegant Trogon
  • I dream of Leon Spinks
  • The empty grave of Zsa Zsa Gabor
  • The blues band
  • Poem beginning with a line by Jǐmnez Hvar
  • Listening to paintings
  • The empathy museum
  • Failed elegy
  • I don't know.
Review by Publisher's Weekly Review

This elegiac and ebullient collection from Zapruder (Father's Day) weaves through several forms of heartache and loss. "I keep learning if you don't write it down/ the thought just flies away," he writes, intent on fixing the materials of dreams, memories, and other disappearing phenomena to the page. The feelings and needs of others are central ("at last the museum/ has become/ a museum of empathy"), as these poems look backwards, almost against their will, recognizing that "life is elsewhere and the past/ always misremembered," as it's painted diligently in "the perfect color/ for disappearing/ at night into the deep/ park." "All solutions are suboptimal" faced with the dilemma of revisiting difficult losses and fleeting joys, but relief, Zapruder suggests, is equally to be found in what was always innately impermanent: "none of us could stop/ laughing at ourselves which in those/ holy wasted days was everything." These pages are rich with elegies for friends, loved ones, and strangers, but even these are self-conscious about the bind of time and the desire to seek a do-over: "what would/ a perfect elegy do? place the flowers// back in the ground?" Zapruder delivers a work of remarkable wit and disciplined emotional attentiveness. (Sept.)

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