Be Brave to Things: The Uncollected Poetry and Plays of Jack Spicer
- Classic Poetry and Plays
- Categories:Classics Essays, Poetry & Correspondence Dramas, Plays & Chinese Folk Art
- Language:English(Translation Services Available)
- Publication date:November,2021
- Pages:400
- Retail Price:(Unknown)
- Size:(Unknown)
- Page Views:60
- Words:(Unknown)
- Star Ratings:
- Text Color:(Unknown)
Request for Review Sample
Through our website, you are submitting the application for you to evaluate the book. If it is approved, you may read the electronic edition of this book online.
Special Note:
The submission of this request means you agree to inquire the books through RIGHTOL,
and undertakes, within 18 months, not to inquire the books through any other third party,
including but not limited to authors, publishers and other rights agencies.
Otherwise we have right to terminate your use of Rights Online and our cooperation,
as well as require a penalty of no less than 1000 US Dollars.
Review
"Have you read a poet and suddenly feel the shoulders you stand on? Jack Spicer does this to many of us, and now there are more poems! Oh, more treasure! Magic is not a metaphor, and 'Time does not finish a poem.' Jack says, 'Like a herd of reindeer / No one knows your heart."―CAConrad
"Be Brave to Things is a welcome addition to Jack Spicer's noncanonical canon, edited with scrupulous attention to a poem's provenance and publishing history. Daniel Katz's introduction is one of the best summaries of Spicer's poetics we have."―Michael Davidson, author of Invalid Modernism: Disability and the Missing Body of the Aesthetic
Feature
Description
"When your body brushed against me. . ."
When your body brushed against me I remembered
How we used to catch butterflies in our hands
Down in the garden.
We were such patient children
Following them from flower to flower
Waiting and hoping.
With our cupped hands we used to catch them
And they answered us with a soft tickle
For they never stopped flying.
In bed I remembered them and cried for
The touch of their fast wings, the impatience
Of their bright colors
I am too old for such games
But even tonight, now your body has reminded me of butterflies
I lie here awake, pretending.