I Love Hearing Your Dreams
Poems
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- ¥1,800
発行者による作品情報
From a poet whose “poems don’t merely attempt beauty; they attain it” (Boston Review), an enchanting and harrowing journey through the landscape of dreams and twenty-first century hopes and disillusions.
“Your dreams / have no hidden / agenda to be wise / they are made / to be forgotten / so something / can be known”
I Love Hearing Your Dreams is a book of reveries, of failed elegies, of “the last time that things were real” and the moments that come afterward. These are dream songs for an age of insomnia, where the poet is always awake “at that oddest hour / that does not end, / the crooked, unnumbered one” and the future seems to be “just the past in a suit / that will never be in style.” Yet dreams in Matthew Zapruder’s poems are also a place of possibility, of reality envisioned anew—sleep shows us not merely what the world is, but what it could be.
From a poet celebrated for his “razor eye for the remnants and revenants of modern culture” (The New York Times), I Love Hearing Your Dreams is a startlingly beautiful and deeply vulnerable book where lives journey into a mystifying place and emerge transformed.
PUBLISHERS WEEKLY
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.
