|Title||:||The Minus Sign: A Selection from the Poetic Anthology|
|Number of Pages||:||168 Pages|
|Status||:||Available For Download|
|Last checked||:||21 Minutes ago!|
The Minus Sign: A Selection from the Poetic Anthology Reviews
I was searching for some South American authors and heard mention of Carlos de Andrade. Minus Sign seemed like a good place to start since it would survey his whole career. The book is divided into three sections, based on chronology. The early poems are very abstract, and you can tell from his diction that his mind is inhabiting a Platonic field of imagination. I enjoyed this section. When he speaks of things (water, wound, dirt, hunger, justice, love) I always heard an allegorical meaning. The middle poems are grounded in the real world and have an everyday feeling. They reminded me generally of Wordsworth's "The Excursion." When he speaks of things (priests, virgins, patriarch, murderers, father, girlfriend, sister) I heard a historical meaning, like he was just describing things that really happen over and over again. The latter poems are all about poetry itself, and love. He presents himself as someone who found love at the end of his life, and was transformed. The words he uses (illusion, kiss, love, destiny, touch, tired, dismay, suffered) evoke emotions and they a sense of closeness.That being said, his poems reminded me of other poet's work, the way you might hear a song on the radio and immediately catalog its influences. "That part is like Nirvana, that part Led Zeppelin, and that one is like Smashing Pumpkins." So what I'm saying is that I couldn't help but feel that he was imitative of his contemporaries. But my view may not be fair at all. Perhaps he came upon these styles first, or discovered them independently.From "Jose": the night's gone cold,dawn hasn't come,the bus won't comenor laugher comeFrom "Consolation at the Beach":You lost your best friend.You never dared leave home.You've no house, no boat, no land.You do have a dog...From "Questions":One cold, weak hourI asked the ghostwhat force bound us,him to me, me whomI presume wholly free,I to him, a vapor,yet palpable in the shadow he layson my entire selfFrom "Search for Poetry":...penetrate with your deafness into the kingdom of words.(The poems which wait to be written are all there.)In the word kingdom, the words are paralyzed, but do not despair;there is calm and coolness on their intact surfaces.Behold them, alone and mute, in their dictionary state.