These poems resist criticism & judgement. They are fragmentary, oracular, allusive & elusive. But most of all they are personal to the point of hermeticism.
They aren't narrative,
except in a dreamy associative
sense.
Of them it can be said: If you like this kind of thing, then you'll like this kind of thing.
It so happens that I do.
Of them it can be said: If you like this kind of thing, then you'll like this kind of thing.
It so happens that I do.
What the poems do impart very clearly
is an overwhelming
is an overwhelming
sense of dark grief.
What light manages to pierce the all-but-impenetrable gloom is sharp & brief. Did I say "pierce"? A more apt word might be "stabbed." The light stabs through the gloom. It hurts.
It's the light that wakes you up
when you've finally lost yourself to the blessed oblivion
of sleep,
of sleep,
the light that painfully brings back sight
just when you've grown accustomed
to being blind.
Flies, as the title implies,
figure into the poems a lot.
They signify death,
but also life.
Dirt, blood, shit—all the stuff we're made
of & to which, decomposing,
we return feature prominently.
figure into the poems a lot.
They signify death,
but also life.
Dirt, blood, shit—all the stuff we're made
of & to which, decomposing,
we return feature prominently.
Suicide, in particular that of
Dickman's older brother,
throws a constant shadow
over the collection, even when it's
not specifically mentioned.
If you're looking for a lot of hope
& cheer & life-affirming bravado
you shouldn't look for it
here.
Instead, these are poems
recording a survival
of the narrowest sort,
a poet fighting for his life
one poem at a time
& who still has the blood
under his fingernails to prove it.
Fragmentary, surreal, & private as Dickman's language
may be, if you've
come through the fire,
walked along the rim of the abyss,
stared into the pit,
you'll understand him perfectly well.
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