Irish-American Books

It is called 'dark comedy' or 'light tragedy'. I am inclined to go with the later. I simply saw no humor in it, but it had a balanced and mostly just resolution, so it was not what I would normally call tragedy.

Angelo, the Duke's deputy is self-righteous hypocrite in command during the Duke's apparent absence. One of his strap-hangers is Lucio, a vile, deceitful, and utterly plausible political climber who grasps at all above him and attempts to step on all below him. Angelo and Lucio live today as a multitude within the D.C. beltway. Isabella, Claudio, Juliet, and Mariana are victims of these base and contemptable political hacks. Vincentio is a brave man caught in the middle, who helps out Isabella at the risk of his own future. The Duke leaves his deputy in charge as he pretends to go off, allegedly on a diplomatic mission. He remains in disguise to see the true nature of his deputy, and hurries out of disguise faster than he would have liked.

The story is grim, but the characters ring true. Good people at odds with vile men in power, and the vile men have deceived a good leader. Deputy's abusing their bosses' power. A man who accepts that doing the right thing is probably a career killer, while a two-faced, lick-spittle, sycophant appears to have a bright future. But with all this, the ending is as bright as can be hoped for.

A great play, but more satisfying than pleasurable.

E.M. Van Court

In order to truly appreciate Shakespeare's genius, I find it beneficial to see the plays performed. It makes the reading of the play later so much more enjoyable. This play is a wonderful tragic comedy. It is probably the darkest of all his comedies. Each of the characters faces his own epiphany and they are forced to come to terms with their own morality, as well as their own mortality. The play is gloomy and pessimistic. The play is set in Vienna. It forces the watcher of the play to reexamine all these issues in his or her own life. Very worthwhile.

Measure for Measure can best be described as Romeo and Juliet but with a happy ending. Or perhaps the sequel to Romeo and Juliet if the two hadn't taken such drastic measures (ha-ha!) at the end. In fact, the woman whose lover is short for this world is named Juliet and the play is once more set in Italy (though this time in Venice).

The play pokes fun at sex in and out of marriage and the "oldest profession" but beyond all the bawdy jokes, is a cautionary tale against morality based government. Juliet's lover, Claudio, is soon to be hanged for getting Juliet pregnant. It's an old law on the books, not enforced for ages until the Duke hands over the city to his would-be successor.
While the play may have been written at the turn of the seventeenth century, it is still relevant and on topic.

Great book! One of the classic Shakespeare dramas. Full of witty humor.

This is a darker comedy of Shakespeare's that was never so popular (except briefly in the 1700s). If you're willing to see past the fact that the hero (the Duke) is essentially playing God, it is an interesting play. Duke Vincentio is supposedly leaving for awhile, and he leaves Angelo in charge. Well, in comes the case of Claudio. Claudio has gotten his fiance Juliet pregnant before the wedding. (They still love each other, but they are not married yet. Some of you may know, the master Shakespeare himself was in this situation. He got his to be wife pregnant, and he had to marry her. It would seem that Shakespeare himself had something of a shotgun wedding.) Well, back to the play. Angelo is merciless and feels that only death is a suitable punishment. Claudio's sister Isabella (who is in the process of becoming a nun) pleads for mercy, and Angelo says he will consider it if Isabella agrees to sleep with him. Naturally, Isabella refuses. One character flaw is that when Isabella tells this to her doomed brother, he humanly asks her to at least consider it, and Isabella rebukes him in a fierce manner. Asimov put it best when he said: "She might not give into Claudio, but she might at least sympathize with his fear of death and forgive him his human weakness. She does not...Isabella shrieks out at her brother." Disguised as a friar, the duke calms Isabella down and tells her Claudio may still be saved. He tells her to agree to Angelo's demands, but Mariana (a girl Angelo desserted sometime ago) will go in her place. At the end of 3.2, the duke gives an interesting passage on the hypocrisy of people: "Shame to him whose cruel striking / kills for faults of his own liking" (3.2.270-271). Later there is an element of dark comedy when the Duke plans to have an older prisoner Barnadine killed in Claudio's place, but Barnadine is so drunk and he comically refuses the directions that will lead to his execution. (So much for that plan.) One thing I found somewhat repulsive in the duke is that he knows he is going to save Claudio, but he decides to play God and tell Isabella that Claudio is dead but she will be satisfied. By the end of the 4th act, we learn that Angelo has slept with Mariana (thinking she was Isabella) and he starts to show some elements of a conscience. (Though not quite as convincingly as Macbeth or Claudius do so.) By the 5th act, the duke is still playing god by allowing Isabella to think Claudio is dead, and pretending to go along with Angelo's accusations of Isabella. But eventually, all is revealed. Claudio is still alive and even Barnadine will be pardoned. Angelo must also marry Mariana. Many people feel that Angelo got off too easy, but remember, this is suppose to be a comedy, and Isaac Asimov put it best when he said: "...many critics (as savage as Angelo) condemn the play because they want to see the man hanged. Yet is it only for those we sympathize that mercy is to be sought?...It is precisely to those whom we hate that we must show mercy if the word is to have any meaning at all."

Recently in this space I reviewed Allen Ginsberg's modern 'beat' classic Howl. I have in the past written admiringly of the metaphysical poet John Donne and of my hero revolutionary Cromwellian Commonwealth political activist/poet John Milton of Paradise Lost fame. All poets in their ways different but held together by one common bond-the ability to sense the beauty hidden in the English language and to put it in symbolic form. Eliot is in that company. To a great extent, at least in the modern era, T.S. Eliot's little poem is the one that permits all following poets including Ginsberg to explore and explode the possibilities of the language. No bad for a bank clerk, right?

I remember first reading, halteringly, Wasteland in high school straight up without notes. We spent a lot of time on the arcane references Eliot sprinkled throughout the poem and we collectively had a project to dig out all the unfamilar symbols buried in the lines of the poem. That, my friends, was serious work. In fact one classmate argued that the Arthurian quest for the Holy Grail was child's paly by comparison. We definitely could have used the copious notes provided here to speak nothing of the various critical interpretations presented. Well done. With the availability of this reference work do not, I repeat, do not fly solo with the Wasteland. It is too important a poem of the modern age to lose its meaning for lack of knowledge of some arcane references.

I'm not really qualified to review TS Eliot. First of all, I couldn't be impartial---I made a special trip while in Somerset to visit the man's grave (actually a little plaque). Secondly, the corpus of his work represents one of the greatest pinnacles of the English language. I'll let Oxford dons review Waste Land.
This book of essays, however, was extremely helpful to me as I studied this poem, this monument to our decaying culture. I really think that it was instrumental in allowing me to reach a certain level of understanding, a level of comfort, with one of the most dense poems in English. However, it's not cheap, and no easy read in itself. You have to want it!
If you are serious about your Eliot, pull out the VISA and go to town. If you are just passing through, your local library has a copy you could check out before spending the money.

I read The Waste Land and find that most poetry that comes after it is self-indulgent, limpid nonsense. The Beats? Who are they? Rubbish, all of it. Philip Larkin? Wimpish nonsense. But TSE and Ezra Pound, there you have the meaning and message of modern poetry. Since them and then, poetry has gone downhill into the personal, the confessional, the onanistic. Poetry MUST be difficult, not accessible, not transparent and easily understood after one reading.

Norton Critcal did it right with this edition. With enough essays and criticism to help anyone get a deeper understanding of Elliot's poem, this edition is a must have. Rainey's essay on the publishing of the poem is particulary interesting.

One reviewer claims that this is marred by some of Eliot's unfurtunate preducices. But how come you don't say something like that about O' Henry. We can't just stop reading authers because you we don't like their views. Someone calls hemingway looking forward? If that's looking forward I'de rather look backward. Hemingway has no concept of lyricism what so ever. Most of the people that reviewer named justly loved Eliot. Eliot is not looking nesscarily towards the past, but towards what we have made out of the present. In name of progress, we have destroyed nature and good part of our souls. To call Eliot Conservative at the time he wrote the poem would be redicoulous, the first draft according to one of Eliot's biographers, was absolutly a expression of Relavtism. One critic accused him being a Nihilist.

On the Poem itself Eliot is truly a master at evocating mode and tone, not to mention his brilliant use of Imperfect rymthe. So it doesn't have the crepty sentimentalism and redicoulous forays of expression of eariler and later poets. So he looks at his poetry with a sense of hard classicism, we could use more of that. Yet what he doesn't right he evoces through mode and tone, giving us truly one of the best poems of this, or any other century.

T.S. Eliot is a genius. The Wasteland is, by far, the best poem I have ever read. It is a bit difficult to get through, but I'm sure if you are thinking of picking up this book you are not looking for light reading. Also, of all the editions I've read, I think this one is the best. The notes on the reading are helpful and explain the text fairly well.

I think perhaps the wasteland has been to long interpeted as a lament, our a lecture, or even a statement about disillusioment. To me it seems to be the story of a non commital spiritualist lingering on the edge Nihilism, confused in pain and feeling empty as if no philosophy has prover satisfactory in his thirst for truth. I have known the morbid and dark mindstates Eliot describes, and I think that is what the wasteland is: a portrait of intense mental and spiritual torment, embellished with symbolism and shifting voices. But that is essentialy what it is, though each voice is distinct it seems to me that the torment of one man leaps between changing but always hinting that they are all his. It is in a way a dramatation of the utimate feelings of man between rationalism and Nihilism and hating both. Feeling that they are frauds and that the only truth is in the empty tired nothingness.

The Waste Land

From the listing this item appears to be a recording of The Waste Land by T.S. Eliot, read by the poet himself; but it's not, it's a performance by another reader, and therefore it had (to me) no interest; it was not what I wanted or needed. I suggest that the product description should be made clearer, so that other customers do not make the same mistake.

This volume includes T. S. Eliot's Prufrock and Other Observations (1917), Poems (1920), and The Waste Land (1922), and thus provides readers with a fair introduction to the work of one of the twentieth century's greatest poets. The American expatriate was a genuine original, bringing forth a new Modernist voice at a time when the movement was at its beginning and Edwardian poetry still carried the day in England.

Clipped, dry, angular, and intellectual if still emotionally sensitive, Eliot's vision of deserted midnight urban streets, ever-present enveloping yellow or brown fog, doubt-obsessed social misfits ("Shall I part my hair behind? Do I dare to eat a peach?" "Do I dare disturb the universe?"), and city dwellers quietly ensnared in a mundane round of workaday routine had an enormous impact on the cultural scene of the period. If the poet doesn't strictly focus on the ugly, he does focus on the unadorned and mundane detritus of civilization in the immediate: "morning comes to consciousness / of faint stale smells of beer / from the sawdust-trampled streets." He speaks of "grimy scraps" of "newspapers from vacant lots," "broken blinds and chimney-pots," and of "raising dingy shades / in a thousand furnished rooms," as if the inexorable void of outer space was present in the next flat and steadily closing in. Even "the evening" "is spread out against the sky / Like a patient etherized upon a table."

Human consciousness and human nature are hesitant at best and deeply troubled, in any number of ways, at worst: sleep reveals "a thousand sordid images" of which the "soul" is "constituted," and the palms of "both hands" are "soiled." The poet states that "There will be time to murder and create," and 'Sweeney Erect' describes the act of sexual intercourse in desperate, awkward, unfulfilling, and bestial terms. In fact, nature in all its manifestations is largely repugnant to Eliot; 'Sweeney Erect' literally describes female genitalia as the vagina dentata: "This withered root of knots of hair / Slitted below and gashed with eyes / This oval O cropped out with teeth." Nor are the seasons a source of comfort: "April is the cruellest month, breeding / Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing / Memory and desire," he says, and suitably, most of the early poems speak only gravely of autumn and winter. The "soft October night" mentioned in 'The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock' startles, since the image it conjures slightly betrays traditional associations of comfort and perceived beauty.

During the period in which the poems were written, Eliot was in the throes of a very troubled marriage to the mentally unstable Vivienne Haigh-Wood, which explains much of the revulsion and guilt-ridden despondency expressed. Eliot was projecting and transposing: history has shown that the poet frequently acted without responsibility and integrity towards Vivienne and their severe personal problems, and thus the vengeful Furies that appear among the dramatis personae in a later Eliot drama were real forces in the poet's psyche. Eliot's inability to cope with Vivienne resulted in moral and ethical failures on his part: the real waste land was Eliot's own perception of his life and reaction to it.

But in his later work, Eliot's fervent religious beliefs would blossom to the fore; much of that poetry would be underscored by a starkly expressed belief in Christian salvation and the potential resurrection of the spirit.

Eliot was not an admirer of the Romantic school, and thus his urban landscapes are neither post-Romantic nor decadent environments, but simply sterile cityscapes devoid of any quality that genuinely support the promise inherent in human existence. However, though Eliot decried the solipsism of the Romantics, his own early work is often pinched, parsimonious, and reductive to the point of constriction.

'The Waste Land,' which is accompanied by five dense author-imposed pages of tedious explanatory notes (which ostensibly insure that the reader understands the poem contains dozens of references to the Bible, Ovid, Sappho, St. Augustine, Dante, Milton, Shakespeare, Baudelaire, Frazer, and even Herman Hesse, among others) is particularly obscure, and therefore solipsistic in its own fashion: its intended audience was not the common man on the street by any means, but the clever, educated, well read, and competitive armchair intellectual of the kind that populated the literary circles in which the author then moved. Aptly titled, 'The Waste Land' is a tedious academic game and a triumph not of poetry but of marketing, with multiple lines like "Weialala leia Wallala leialala" and "Co co rico co co rico" that are guaranteed to lock its audience out.

Eliot may have shunned Romanticism, but he never escaped the powerful romantic elements in his own nature; this is apparent right at the beginning of his published work with 1917's 'The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock,' which famously ends with "the mermaids singing, each to each" and Prufrock observing, "I do not think they will sing to me." "I should have been a pair of ragged claws / Scuttling across the floor of silent seas" can also be interpreted in terms of romantic, even rebellious, longing: the tone is different from that broadly found in Blake, Wordsworth, Shelley, and Byron, but the desire for unrestricted freedom, even oblivious freedom, is actively present nonetheless.

Even if intended ironically, 'Rhapsody On A Windy Night' is romantically titled, and the later 'Marina' ("What images return...O my daughter"), 'Ash Wednesday' (1930), and 'Four Quartets' would be thoroughly suffused with longing, desire, and sense of loss. In fact, some may interpret Eliot's fervent Protestantism as the final manifestation of this restless trend in his personality.

Since in his early work Eliot's poetry is more satisfying on a line by line basis ("Webster was much possessed by death / And saw the skull beneath the skin"), a more complete portrait of the poet and his work is available in The Complete Poems and Plays 1909 - 1950 (1971).

I found this edition by Penguin to be very useful for a casual reading. The notes on the poems, in particular "the Waste Land," are detailed enough to give the reader a perception of Eliot's vast literary knowledge and its effect on his poems. However, the notes are inadequate if your purpose is to deeply understand the background of Eliot's complex and difficult poetry. So if you are looking for deep insights, I would recommend the Norton Critical Edition. For the normal reader, this is satisfying and straightforward.

What particularly struck me was James' lack of self-pity. I was constantly amazed that he was able to put his condition aside and imagine a better life for someone else. It was also a paean (sp?) to ICU nurses.

I've been disabled (temporarily, thank heaven) and was amazed at Moran's knowledge of how it feels to depend on others so totally. I didn't know until I finished the book that it happened to him, just this way. (His "dreams" were particularly horrific.)

Well done, without being smarmy or sappy.

I read a great deal and tend to read the works, particualry the earlier works, of an author whose work I have enjoyed ..This was the case with this book. I had read Anja The Liar (and have no idea how I got to it) but I found it quite absorbing and it covered, in an interesting way, a lot of new territory for me as far as the locale and the period it covers. And then I chose "The World..." which I found to be an incredibly involving but uncomofrtable read -- but, saying thta, I was quite moved by it and the plight of the patient, which I now understand is based on Moran's own experiences after suffering a devestating illness. It made me very aware of our own precarious sense of morality and impending disaster without warning or notice...and I really enjoyed the way the author introduces bit and pieces of "James''" previous life and experiences. It is a very sad book but it really takes you inside the head and body of this poor unfortunate man who has been stricken down and has lost all but a very limited connection with his increasingly diminshing world and perspective -- I won't say more but I do recommend it as a most compelling read.

Mr. Moran has taken his experiences as a patient and written a novel that reflects the hidden world of a man trapped in his own body. The story is moving and realistic, and quite touching. His interaction with the nurse is the vehicle for the novel, but I think he could have written it without other characters, and simply let the experience and thoughts of the protagonist flow to carry the book. I really enjoyed this, and passed it on to an Irish nurse who I thought would appreciate it.

James Blatchley, the narrator of Thomas Moran's second novel, "The World I Made for Her" finds himself in a terrifyingly real predicament: stricken by a minor childhood disease that leaves him unable to walk, speak, or breathe on his own.

Completely helpless, he is cared for by two Irish nurses--the bawdy, outgoing Brigit, who has a penchant for shooting up the narcotics meant for her patients, and the graceful, softspoken Nuala, nicknamed St. Nualala by Brigit for her demure behavior. James fixates upon Nuala and begins a love affair with her that exists only in his mind.

As the days wear on, James drifts in and out of consciousness, envisioning Nuala's daily routine, her past, and her aspirations and desires, as it soon becomes clear that Nuala needs James almost as much as he needs her.

The story is augmented by Moran's vividly straightforward prose and utterly believable characters. Told from James's point of view, the novel is also highly personal, as Moran himself fell ill with a minor childhood diease and spent five months in the hospital as the virus attacked his organs and nearly killed him. He recalls his own visions in hypnotic detail that underscores the redemptive, life-affirming power of love.

This is a small book, but one you'll never forget. It's like the work of Nicholson Baker in a way, but with even more heart. It made me cry and made my wife cry. I also loaned it to my friend, and he hasn't returned it, so this book has made me cry twice.

I must admit that I have a bit of a family bias toward Yeats. My family is from County Sligo, where Yeats partially grew up and wherein he is buried. My grandfather even marched in his funeral, and I have visited his grave in Drumcliffe several times.

With that confession out of the way, I'll make my contentious claim, that Yeats is the best poet of the 20th century. I cannot claim to have read all the poetry of the century (none can), nor even all of the greats, but I have read enough to feel myself at least partially justified in this claim! :)

His poems have a wonderful power to them, weight in the emotional and the lyrical senses, those two factors on which I judge poems most primarily. They flow wonderfully, display the full beauty of the English language, and contain a depth of thought not seen, some would say, since Wordsworth (I say since Keats or maybe Tennyson, but I cite the former claim from Harold Bloom).

Take the following, one of his earliest poems and, though good, not his best:

When you are old and grey and full of sleep,
And nodding by the fire, take down this book,
And slowly read, and dream of the soft look
Your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep;

How many loved your moments of glad grace,
And loved your beauty with love false or true,
But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you,
And loved the sorrows of your changing face;

And bending down beside the glowing bars,
Murmur, a little sadly, how Love fled
And paced upon the mountains overhead
And hid his face amid a crowd of stars.

There is obviously a powerful Romanticism in this poem, and it is not his most original nor his most deep, but it is a wonderful poem nonetheless. Just speak it aloud to yourself; listen to how well it flows. Think of it emotionally, as though you yourself were the woman reading it, or you were the one writing it to your lover to be read after your death.

THE WINDING STAIR AND OTHER POEMS is his best book overall, and it is included in its entirety here, but almost all of these poems retain some value. Highly, highly recommend; besides Keats (no, it doesn't rhyme with Yeats! :)), Blake, Milton, and Shakespeare, I'd have to say he is my favourite poet!

A Further Recommendation:
If you are a fan of Yeats--and even if you are not--I highly recommend visiting Co. Sligo and his grave in Drumcliffe. The graveyard wherein he is buried and the surrounding area is the most beautiful, tranquil, and wonderful place I have yet seen on this planet, and I don't suspect I'll ever renounce that judgement. If you go there, walk a short way from the graveyard toward the main road, across from the round tower, and there is a road to a little creek with a pathway running along it. Walk down it, and think of the poems of Yeats and of things you love, and I promise you an unforgettable experience :)

Cast a cold Eye
On Life, on Death.
Horseman, pass by.

Yeats' poems should not be questioned, thus I do not.

Good about this edition is that it covers a great scope of his works. I think there's almost everything. Nice typeface used, font is nor small nor huge (exception for appendix). It is good to read, easy to find.

Bad thing is: paper. Yes, its paperback and this sort of books is always cheap. There was no hardcover available at the moment nor any book of such size either. Not to speak of any choice in Russia (Translations? No, thanks). Still, paper is roughly cut and, what makes things worse, I won't give a penny on whether this edition will survive more than 30 years. I'd get a better book later.

This book contains all of Yeat's published poetry and I believe alot of his dramatic writings. Yeat's has to be one of the best english poets of all time. I put him up next to Shakespeare. His poems are full of mystery, and alot of romance and polotics. It's really great stuff.

The short space that is offered here for reviews is nowhere near sufficient to review the life's works of one of Ireland's and the world's greatest poets. However I must at least try to describe the beauty that is the poetry of William Butler Yeats.

Perhaps Yeats is at his finest when reflecting on love, usually unrequited. Yeats manages to produce love poems that have a genuine passion that is surprisingly rare in poetry, specifically that of the modern day. Perhaps Yeats is representative of a type of romanticism that is moribund in modern literature, this is surely a tragic shame.

However Yeats' examination of the human condition is not restricted to the romantic. In 'What Then?', Yeats examines the frantic and vain human search for an ultimate meaning or significance. He manages this in a far more poetic and succinct way than many poets who have gone before him. In 'A Man Young and Old', Yeats runs us through the gamut of human experience in a wonderous,yet harrowing manner.

These are but a handful of examples of this beautiful poetry that demands to be read by any lover of literature.

A great compilation of Yeats works, while other compilations have excellent notes and essays regarding his works this one has many of his poems (and series of poems) all in one book. An outstanding book to own, beautifully compiled in this soft cover book (which has surprisingly held up quite well against years of battering as I carry it with me from time to time).

In our era of "reality" TV and "cop shows" where both are driven by good writers and "bigger lie bigger buy" mentality comes this simply excellent book. What is striking throughout is McDonald's superb writing ability and diligent research. His ability to keep the reader interested on what is otherwise ordinary lives. His writing power is further distinguished by an absolute avoidance of cop cliche, which on a book like this is like going on an Easter egg hunt and telling the story of the journey...the people...the experience... without resorting to a redundant "and then I found this Easter egg."

Mostly, what I loved is the powerful taste of NYC through troubled times and good. The peoples experience of this fine city. Being a cop in the 70s. A cop under Tammany. A cop standing on the seam of this city as it is ripped apart under stress and sewn back together again. And the pure grit of cop families that never fall through and in the end the ones that mend the chasam again and again.

I was disappointed in the book. Unless you are interested in the political history of the area as it relates to the police department, you will probably be bored. It needed way more cop stories.

I read this book in one day. Brian hits all the points. I hadn't remembered the experience of sneaking into my dad's top dresser draw to lift his gun and being surprise by its weight, until I read the book's opening. My great great grandfather became a NYC Central Park cop upon arrival from Ireland in 1865. Since then, we always had at least one cop in the family until my father's death on St. Patrick's Day 1997.

My great grandfather responded to the General Slocum disaster; my grandfather (a Fordham Law graduate) was a detective who investigated Murder Inc. and other organized crime families; my father was the target of bricks during the 1960s, and I remember being terrified watching the Black Panthers calling for the execution of all cops; and one of my uncles battled the gangs in China town.

This book not only covers most of those events, it also made me remember police picnics and clam bakes, and hanging out as a kid watching my father play pool in the local saloon. Although my family moved "up the line" to northern Westchester, and not "across the river" to Rockland, my family's closest associations were with other cop families.

I have three brothers and three sisters. All seven of us have enjoyed this book.

Furthermore, as other reviewers have noted, this is a well written book.

I urge anyone who grew up in a cop family, as well as anyone looking for a great read to read this book.

I came to appreciate the difficulties of being an honest and good NYPD cop.
This book helped me realize that all the heroic things cops do are ignored by the media, while the few mistakes are constantly highlighted.
Since 9/11 the media and the liberal left have improved somewhat, but not enough.
The courage and selflessness required to be a NYPD cop are amazing. While the NYPD is not above criticism, I think much of the criticism is misplaced, misleading and a result of misunderstanding.
I dare Al Sharpton to read this book -- maybe it could expand his world view a little bit more.

As a member of NYPD, I have heard alot of talk on this book. also living in Rockland county,(also where the author lived) I can relate to differents points of interest in the book. I living a civil service family life, can compare the different aspects of "the job". My father being an officer of FDNY, me being the first cop. This books goes from the changes in the dept. through scandals and also working now shows what things havent changed. I highly recomend this book to anyone not just cops, it puts in perspective a cops life and what the family endures also. Once you start reading it is a hard book to stop reading, it isn't hard reading the book flows very smooth. I am not reader and for me to read a complete book is good.

I've had many of these poems for many years. This was a nice addition to the family library. I now have 3 of the leather-bound volumes, and intend to buy several more. (each family member will get one of these TREASURES.

My Mother read these poems to us as we were growing up. I also memorized many of these poems at school. Reading it again was like visiting an old and familar friend.

This is by far the best collection of general heritage poetry I have come across. Classics when originally compiled that are still the standards for Americana poetry as well as a summation of our cultural history.

I ordered this book for Christmas for my 12 year old daughter who recently has gotton into poetry. After I ordered the book it shipped very quickly, was here within a week. The book itself is great, a large hand held book that and is packed with poetry from the worlds famous poets. I think it's a great starter poetry book.

As a child my mother read from this book to me and to my father. She need
not have read much as she memorized many of the poems and can recite them
now, though well past her 90th year. I have given this book to many of my friends and consider it a gift of love and inspiration.

Fantastic short and to the point essays about the greats of poetry along with the ability to hear them read in their own voices - invaluable asset to the serious poet or poetry fan.

What a joy it is to see/read poems and be able to hear the poets read the poems to me, the reader. Poetry is breath and life and as the poet reads, and I read back, the exoerience between the artist and the audience is a unity.

When PBS ran the poetry series, Bill Moyers talked about how when we read a poem from another it's like our breath echoing theirs.

I feel this when I listent to these CDs and read the poems.

We all need more poetry, but we need more poetry both written AND spoken.

This volume is wonderful.

The poets in this volume were listed in another review. I am here simply copying the list. Lord Tennyson; Robert Browning; Walt Whitman; William Butler Yeats; Gertrude Stein; Robert Frost; Carl Sandburg; Wallace Stevens; William Carlos Williams; Ezra Pound; H.D.; Robinson Jeffers; John Crowe Ransom; T.S. Eliot; Edna St. Vincent Millay; Dorothy Parker; e.e. Cummings; Louise Bogan; Melvin B. Tolson; Laura Riding Jackson; Langston Hughes; Ogden Nash; W.H. Auden; Louis MacNeice; Theodore Roethke; Elizabeth Bishop; Robert Hayden; Muriel Rukeyser; William Stafford; Randall Jarrell; John Berryman; Dylan Thomas; Robert Lowell; Gwendolyn Brooks; Robert Duncan; Philip Larkin; Denise Levertov; Allen Ginsberg; Frank O'Hara; Anne Sexton; Etheridge Knight; and Sylvia Plath.
There is a great deal of great and inspiring poetry in this volume. There is also mediocre poetry. And I agree with one other reviewer who said that many of the poets read surprisingly poorly. They all should have listened to Dylan Thomas and learned from him. The power of his voice and the range of his feeling move greatly.
I also was not overwhelmed by the various poetic appreciations. They seemed to me too subjective and did not add greatly to the knowledge of the poets under discussion.
Yet with all the complaining the reading and listening to much of this poetry inspires to poetry. It lifts the mind and heart to another dimension in which there is a depth and a beauty to words which can be found nowhere else.
This anthology has enough of such great poetry to be truly worthwhile.

Once in every 100 years a book is created which captures, both in written and spoken word, the ongoing development of an art form. Poetry Speaks is one such book. Glancing at its cover and size, some people will conclude it to be a 'coffee table book', impressive to look at but hardly ever read. For those persons whoread the smaller print: Hear Great Poets Read their Work from Tennyson to Plath, they experience a pregnant pause ..'Tennyson to Plath'...Tennyson?? It is then book's pages have called and the reader/listener are absorbed into its binding. Alfred, Lord Tennyson, Walt Whitman and Robert Browning, were all 19th century poets who died in the late 1880s - 1890s. Yet, because of wax cylinders and the wizardry of Thomas Edison, his desire to capture the human voice, and his love of poetry,1886,he recorded each. Nearly 120 yars later,we are able to listen to these poets reading selections of their own writings. We are invited into the studio, hear their puzzlements, frstrations aw well as triumphant celebration, after recording and hearing,for the first time, their own voices.

Poetry Speaks not only has selections of writings, it includes three CDs. Narrated by Charles Osgood, listeners are escorted through a century of recorded voices and explains how recording itself changed the way poetry was presented when read out load. Within the book's pages, each selected poet is introduced with a brief biography, explanation of th poet's style,as well as how outside events and societal changes and influences shaped both poet and poetry. Some presenters include handwritten copies with lined out deletions and revisions. The study of each poet is an educational find.
The collection is a treasure. Whether you enjoy poetry, find it a bit
intimidating or just what to share something a very special for a very special person...such as yourself, Poetry Speaks will let your spirit soar. You will need to take it from the coffee tabe, open its pages, and read along with its authors.

Margaret C. Barno

The Poetry Speaks collection features works and readings by 42 of the greatest poets ever.

The book itself is rather weighty (literally), but the essays and poems themselves are organized in such a way as to make even the non-poet appreciate them.

The one complaint I have about the collection is the narrator's unbearable way of trailing off mid-sentence. The "introductions" to the poets and their works were bearable enough--- as I said, the book is very user friendly and is a good intoduction to the world of poetry to those who dont know Donne from Shelley--- however, not saying the whole sentence (whether for theatrical effect or simply to save CD space) leaves listeners frustrated. For example, in the introduction to Robert Browning: "At the end of the historical recording, Browning..." Browning what? We know that Browning apologizes for forgetting the words in "How They Brought the Good News from Ghent to Aix", but with simply "..." Browning could have hit Thomas Edison over the head with a phonograph for all we know.

Mysterious narration is not a good enough reason not to get the book however. The joy of hearing Whitman and Pound and Plath far surpasses even the most irritating introductons.

The solution: import all the audio files onto your computer, delete the introductons, transfer the files onto your iPod and voilà. C'est parfait. Find a nice shady tree to sit under, balance the book on your knees, switch on your iPod and experience history.

Having been a fan of Barchester Towers and The Way We Live Now, I expected more from this novel. I found the characterizations disappointing--particularly that of George Vavasor. It simply does not ring true. He develops [or unravels] from a likeable, quirky character to a deranged one for seemingly no other reason that to be a plot device. Alice Vavasor did not capture my interest, and no, I cannot forgive her for her lack of vision and resolution.

John Grey was lovingly drawn--perhaps too lovingly--and Palliser was successful as a multi-dimensional aristocrat. I enjoyed both of these portraits. Without going through the copious list of personages, I will wrap it up and say that this novel was not as well-constructed as I was accustomed to from Trollope; nor did the plot grab me. I preferred He Knew He Was Right.

Trollope is no Charles Dickens, but he has insights into human life that Dickens seems to lack completely. Trollope deeply understands that women have their own interests, needs, preferences, and ambitions. He also understands that women cannot always count on the men in their lives to provide financial security. He understands these things not only on a sociological plane, but on a deeply personal, psychological level.

Unfortunately, he does not let these realities reach their ultimate conclusion. The women you care about in his books are typically left comfortable and happy, because they are lucky with their men. Like Dickens, Trollope is ready to accept the social reality of women as he finds it. Unlike, say, the women in George Eliot's novels, Trollope's women are rescued by men, or by their patrimony, so they are not left in poverty and despair.

But, nonetheless, Trollope is a great and addictive storyteller. I read this novel in a week, and I can't wait to read the next book in the Palliser series.

This was the first book I read by Anthony Trollope and I found it to be one of the best books I have ever read. Trollope combines a subtle sense of humor, rich descriptive imagery, and easy-to-understand writing style to create a book that tackles many of the same human, emotional, moral, and political issues that Tolstoy writes about. However, because the writing style is so much more accessible, you can relate to the main characters and the dilemmas they face so much more effectively.

This story is particularly relevant today as it was back in England. Today we are still trying to answer the question "what should a woman do with her life". While women today have more options -- we still struggle between trying to decide whether we should do "what society expects of us" or "do what we really want to do". Even Hillary Clinton is struggling with many of the themes of this book -- how to be a feminine figure but worthy of respect; how to be a good wife without being a doormat; how to balance her need and desire for power with societies fear of a powerful woman.

If you are looking for books that echo many of the issues we face today while providing a rich environment to escape to that doesn't include minivans and modern minutae, Anthony Trollope is an excellent author. This book is a great introduction to his philosophy and stories, all written with intelligence, humor and class.

I suppose it's not fair to pick on authors who are no longer alive to defend themselves, but I think that there is good reason that Jane Austen has enjoyed a renaissance and Trollope has not.

I've been told over and over again that Trollope is for people who love politics. I've always found this to be a bit of an overstatement since it strikes me that the "politics" involved sound pretty much like politics everywhere; that of the machinations required to get elected (or get a seat in Parliament, in this case). Just like today. Big deal. There is usually just enough politics to confuse people who have zero background knowledge but not enough to tell anything new to people who have read a few Victorian novels or have any concept at all of politics in general. (I don't even pay a lot of attention to politics and I've never learned a thing from Trollope).

This is a good novel that should have been half as long. There is almost no actual plot--the characters are mainly shuffled among extended visits to one another and trips to Switzerland--and there is too much dialogue for what actually needs to be said (contrast with Austen's conciseness). The characters are delineated pretty clearly as they are introduced and, while some of them do grow, they don't grow enough to fill out almost 700 pages. Alice, in particular, persists in being tiresomely stubborn, reserved, and wooden until the end; even as she has been won over again by John Grey she protests that she is "not good enough" and resists the expectations of levity and celebration that come with her wedding. She is an interesting depiction of a very independent-minded woman (which must have been something of a novelty in 1864) but it is not really convincing that she is as intelligent as it seems she should be, or she might be better at self-reflection.

I think Trollope meant for the reader to see Grey as Alice does--colorless at first and then expanding into something more vital and interesting--but he doesn't quite accomplish it and Grey never really gels as a character and never really seems to merit the admiration paid him by other characters.

In an unusual turnabout for a Victorian novel, we have here three cases of women being very uncertain about their men -- to the point of, in one case, jilting a fiance and, in the other, with threatening to abandon a marriage by running off with an infamous ne'er-do-well. Also, we have Anthony Trollope's most dastardly villain, the ambitious and egoistic George Vavasor, with a visible fault line through his face for expressing rage.

In a Trollope novel, everything is not as it seems. The institution of marriage, in particular, comes in for some hard knocks -- all from the point of view of the women involved. Alice Vavasor, Lady Glencora Palliser, and Arabella Greenow come from the aristocracy and the upper middle class. All three women in the course of the novel grow and change before our eyes.

As the first novel in the six-book Palliser series, _Can You Forgive Her?_ also introduces us to the world of high politics. Sir Plantagenet Palliser is about to become Chancellor of the Exchequer; and George Vavasor dips into his fiancee's fortune to run twice as a Member of Parliament for Chelsea. Trollope had always wanted to become an MP himself, and ran once (and lost) for the borough of Beverley. His bad experiences were the stuff of some masterful election scenes in novels, notably the much underestimated _Ralph the Heir_.

Other Trollope set pieces include a fabulous fox hunt in Book I, in which the author himself appears under another name. There is also a dispute over an inheritance; fascinating legal trickery in George Vavasor's borrowings from his fiancee; and the typical Trollope developing of his characters' weaknesses until they pop.

While over 800 pages in length, I felt as if this was less than half that. Yes, reading Trollope requires a commitment; but his books are intriguing enough to reward it. This is one of my favorites.

I listened to this audio book, I have to say I think I enjoyed it more that I would have if I had just read it. The narrator does an excellent job with the Irish accent.

I enjoy the crime genre, I have gone through the entire (almost) Sandford Prey Series. In many ways this book and the main character Michael Forsyth have a lot in common with the Prey books. Think of Michael as the anti Lucas Davenport. But as the anti-hero, he is very likeable. Very much a victim of his environment trying to make the most of it.

I found the detail about living in New York City the best written parts of this book. The author really captures the mood of the city, especially the influx of the crack cocaine. This part of the book reminded me a lot of the non-fiction book In Search of Respect by Phillipe Bourgios. Great book, I hope the series can continue at this caliber.

Wow! Adrian McKinty's "Dead I Well May Be" is a blistering rogue of a novel; an intelligently savage novel as melancholy as it is brutal - a fatalistic tour through upper Manhattan's mean streets which are pale and gentle against a Mexican prison's brand of hard-time.

Michael Forsythe flees native Ireland reluctantly but just ahead of the law to work for Darkie White, head of the Irish mob controlling the drug flow in one of Harlem's burned out hoods in the Wild West Days of David Dinkin's New York. Michael has not yet turned 20, but he already has a lifetime behind him: a failed stint in the Army and veteran of Belfast's "Troubles", young Michael finds himself strangely at ease meting out violence to transgressors without discrimination to creed, race, or religion, while finding enough time for hard drinking and loose women. But what could have been just another simple - if well told - tale of drugs and drug runners shooting each other up in the city takes a furiously unexpected turn down a desperate path of betrayal, survival, and vengeance in an Odyssey-like journey that has the reader hanging on by the fingernails as McGinty lurches through twists and corners, each more shocking than the last. Where Homer's Odysseus faces Scylla and Charybdis, young Michael has Dominicans and sadistic prison guards to deal with; Homer's Sirens are Micheal's Bridget, Darky's irresistible moll who launches Michael's voyage into Hell. True to the fabled warrior-poets, McKinty's pen spins, despite the viciousness of the storyline, achingly beautiful prose. Michael's fever-fed, hallucinogenic escape through the hurricane is poetry as a raw, open wound. But this is hardly Homer - it is much more readable and infinitely more disturbing - the kind of stuff the IRA likely reads for bedtime stories.

In young Michael Forsythe, McKinty creates the likable, flawed hero - self educated and deeply literate, wisdom honed by days and nights on the streets - the learned thug who brings "War and Peace" - in audio form - with him on a stake out. Masterful foreshadowing leads the way but only makes the anticipation greater, and while the climax comes as no surprise, the redemption is no less satisfying.

Part Cormac McCarthy, part Ken Bruen, with a hint of Charlie Huston and Dennis Lehane, Adrian McKinty is the most talented author I've never noticed - till now. This is powerful fiction - unrepentant and unapologetic - and certainly not for the easily offended or feint of heart. For me, can't wait to dive into the next two installments of the Michael Forsythe trilogy. Bravo, Mr. McKinty!

Lots of insight to the emigres of Northern Ireland. Too much graphic gore, but action keeps the pages turning. If his character could show a bit of remorse for his formulaic killings, the product would be better.

I've owned this book since December of 2004, which makes it quite pathetic that I'm just now writing this review for the book. But with Adrian McKinty's new novel seeing its release in just two more months, I figured that this may help with the build-up of that new Michael Forsythe vehicle.

Speaking of Michael Forsythe; typical young Irishman coping with the political and religious hardships in Northern Ireland, out of work and shipped off to New York for a dire means to an end; his own survival. He didn't want to work for Darkey White, but when opportunity knocks...

Darkey White's caste-level system crew of Irish mobsters run the rackets in Harlem and the Bronx, reluctantly sharing the streets in a nefarious relationship with rival Dominicans. Michael is young but he's poised, the only real leader among the low level paddy mobsters, a rag tag crew found in Scotchy, Fergal, and Michael's new mates. Living in a tenement and attempting a mum's the word relationship with the boss' number one girl, Bridget, Michael gets in over his head, and not even his monumental skills with a Belfast six-pack will keep him from what awaits.

A passive-agressive reprimand of the deportation sort.

Michael must overcome the Mexican heat, shanks, hallucinations and depreivation and torture, only to see that the light at the end of the tunnel is a return to life that led him blindly, in the city that took him in and spit him back out. Once on the warpath, heads roll and loyalties are revealed that Michael and his six-shooter must learn to cope with, setting personal feelings aside and digging into what he's endured, and who has forced him to do so.

Knick-nack, Paddy whack, crime fiction will never be the same. McKinty's writing is clever and nothing short of inspirational to writers of the genre. Michael's voice is naive but then again seasoned, shaped in Irish slang and Belfast lilt. Told tough and noirish, Dead I Well May Be serves up gritty revenge stone cold, leaving you full and famished for more of his stylish work. Buy into McKinty's whole catelog. I did.

I bought this book primarily because it was a recom either here on Amazon or from someone who had read Declan Hughes' novels. I can't remember any longer. But boy, I am ecstatic that I ordered this book.

McKinty has a gift for both dialogue and plot movement. In this, the first of the Michael Forsythe series (I believe there are two other books in the series, both of them even now waiting for me in an Amazon box at home, if package tracking is to be believed), the reader follows Forsythe on his journey from Ireland to New York to Mexico and then back to New York.

He leaves Ireland because he has no options available to him; he can not afford to stay there and has prospects in New York. Upon arriving in New York, he becomes a very low-level gangster whose life hardly sounds much of an improvement over what he had in Ireland. McKinty does a sterling job of showing us what Forsythe's circumstances are (think mega cockroach heaven and continued poverty) at the same time that he develops Forsythe's character through the descriptions the first-person narrator provides.

This novel is done in Forsythe's voice, and that's a plus. Not only do we get to "hear" him speak to others, thereby getting a sense of how he communicates; we also get all the action filtered through his humor, intelligence (in many things, but not all--the boy simply can not pick a good woman to save his life), and philosophical bent.

I found several parts of this book particularly fascinating. The one that sticks out most in my mind at the moment is the part of the book that takes place in Mexico, after Forsythe has been jailed in a truly horrific Mexican prison. (Don't hurt me! I'm not revealing anything that's not on the book jacket!) I absolutely loved getting into Forsythe's mind here; he created movies with which to occupy his intellect so that he would not die both mentally and physically. He literally reconstructs wars and childhood events, creating "films" that allow him to survive the days when he is chained to the ground for 23 out of 24 hours.

Forsythe is an appealing character even when he is at his ugliest, and he can be ugly indeed. He's no hero, not really. He's capable of doing terrible things because they seem right to him at the time or even because he doesn't see an easy way out of them. But he's also got a conscience (even if it does seem a bit convenient) and a sense of honor that help balance the other side of him. And he's utterly hilarious. You'll find yourself snorting laughter at odd times.

You'll love the view you get of a New York that isn't quite so obvious any longer. This is the New York that existed before different areas got "cleaned up" and the crime rate began to go down. It's a New York you'd be hard-pressed to want to live in. And Forsythe's circle of "friends" is one you'd never want for your own. Hell, you might not want Forsythe anywhere near you or anyone you loved. The man has serious issues.

All in all, this is a wonderful first novel in the series. I can't wait to read the other two.