“David Kirby is a master conversationalist, a witty and deep feeling thinker, part Mel Brooks, part Virgil, dazzling in his range of tone and reference, in his surprising, often zany, yet always satisfying turns from observation to rumination, from elegy to comedy. The Temple Gate Called Beautiful is one of the most moving and entertaining books I’ve ever read.”-Alan Shapiro
I did just finish reading Kirby’s book of poems over the weekend. I like the book a lot. Rupert wants me to review it for Stride. Not hard to do. The poems are so likeable and interesting. Shapiro’s blurb on the back cover is as A+ as blurbs can get, it would seem. But put so boldy and baldly it makes you believe maybe Shapiro is genuine and sincere. And who is Shapiro? Not known. But now that I’ve read Kirby’s book I’d say Shapiro is on the right track and tack. The book really is hugely enjoyable and not just “for a book of poetry,” or anything like that. Kirby writes a kind of long, rambling, essayistic, meditative poem that is just as readable as possible and which yet turns and turns in subtle ways that almost confound but don’t really and by the end you keep saying, wow, how cool, how moving, how fascinating, how did he do that, or how amazing for being both so ordinary and so extraordinary at the same time. The poems read often like entries in Kirby’s notebook or journal, and they also read as traveler’s tales, odd anecdotes that spice conversation, collected stories condensed, sorted, almost arranged but more loosely strung together than a novelist would do. Kirby is not a moralist, not as essayist, not a yarn spinner, not a diarist, although a little of all of these. The tone and voice are so casual most of the time I’m tempted to throw in that he’s not all that intense, for being a poet, on language. But I won’t say that because I’m sure on a second reading I will immediately start finding instances to refute such a sloppy notion. Kirby puts a great deal of attention into line length, rhythm, stanza, but it never shows, never feels strained, never skips or jostles. Maybe I could say he’s as easy and effortless and as smooth as butter as Billy Collins. But he’s not. He’s heavier and funnier, he blends art history and pop history, feels the press of death and aging and tosses it all away with the lightness of joking and teasing and disarming laughter. The warmth of the best books anyone has ever read.
