Jim Kates
It’s hard to imagine many of Gail Mazur’s poems emerging from anywhere else than from inside Route 128.
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In Henri Cole’s best poems, the outside and the inside interpenetrate and merge.
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Take the poems slowly, enjoy the Cage-y silences, the concentrated words as they appear.
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For a generation of Russians, Joseph Brodsky was the poet, almost a code-word in the discourse of the intelligentsia, like Nabokov.
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In these poems, contemplation, serenity, and service are the order of the day.
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The overall effect is one of a genial, superficial club lecture on reading and writing poetry, punctuated by Frost’s Greatest Hits.
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Carolyn Michel’s Rose is the sociable stranger on the bus who tempts you to miss your stop so you can hear her out to the end.
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When you do this kind of thing it has to be done with bravura and wit — bad poets borrow, good poets steal.
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Dumas’ Camille is nothing if not ambitious. Such complexity is seldom found on a summer stage.
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This review, like the opening night of She Loves Me, is dedicated to the life and work of the late producer Harold Prince.
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Arts Commentary: Rich in Creativity — But Nothing Else