Book of the Week

Lyrical Years (Kelsay Books) 2023)

 

 by Gary D. Grossman

 

 

 

Review by Sharon Waller Knutson

I was enthralled and mesmerized by Gary Grossman’s poetry collection “Lyrical Years” as he shares snipetss of his life as a son, boyfriend, husband, father and lover of life, nature and the environment. I was impressed with his snappy, smart and funny signature writing style.

I agree with the praise on the back of the book:
Gary Grossman takes readers into his world, infused with heartache and humor, snakes and kudzu, hummingbirds and gifts abundant. In the process we learn about his orphaned life, about life—that you can strike out 1,326 times and also be a hero, also be a graceful, intimate poet.
—Susan Fox Rogers, author of Learning the Birds

Walt Whitman once described Leaves of Grass, his life’s work, not as a book, but as a man. This feeling, of a life contained within a poetic text, is also expressed by Gary Grossman’s Lyrical Years. From youthful loves to later-life tattoos, Grossman’s verses lay bare the personal truths of life while always embracing the most lyrical aspects of the craft.
—Jordan A. Rothacker, author of The Pit, and No Other Stories
I’ll let some of my favorite poems speak for themselves.

 

PERSONAL VALUES

About twenty years ago,
I had a girlfriend in LA,
who became my first love,
though not the woman
I have loved the most.

We did all the first love things,
the moist loins thing,
the lying to parents overnight trip thing,
the matching rings thing,
the everlasting devotion thing,
the break up every 6 months
sleep with someone else
get back together again thing,

when I moved to Berkeley for school,
everlasting devotion stayed in LA,
she was 17,
but promised to move up
eighteenth birthday morning,

then her parents told her
they would take away
her car and horse,
so she didn’t,

which put the first crack
in my heart, though I did learn
my worth as a person,
which was less than the cost of
a 3-year old roan gelding,
and a ‘68 VW in good condition,
but it didn’t bother me all that much,
cause things were
a lot more expensive then.

Anna at 3 1/2 Shows an Interest in Fashion

Your silhouette indents my thigh,  
an artist's brush upon my slacks,
slides back and forth, and up and down
as more of lunch is nuzzled clean
upon my pants.

Now blotched with amber, edged in red,
the leavings of a ripened peach,
a dash of green from spinach too,
my wardrobe heralds new couture,
designed with patterns from your plate,
cheek etched shirts and lip glazed pants.

A millennial parent, PhD, and a
a four foot napkin, neck to knee.

Uncried Tears

Laying upon
the sterile draped table,
I smiled as I saw you
in a black and white world,
"Just a check-up" the OB said
"a precaution."

Unknowing,
I watched your reflection
slide from the doctor's face,
his eyes like French doors,
slamming shut, then reopening.
He said "there is a problem."

And staring at
the grey-filled screen,
I wondered,
had already met
your older sister and brother,
somewhere,
in the house where tears are made.

 

Unexpected Disturbances

Damn, what the hell?
I shuffle upstream, rod
in hand, just outside the  
rhododendron line, and
am struck by flying needles
forearm, ankle and neck.
effing yellow jackets.

Mother drove poorly
always fiddling,
cigarettes or radio.
until her ‘65
Karmann Ghia vaulted
a 30 foot embankment
on the road cleaving

the sage-shrouded hills
between Tecate and
Tijuana – DOA—
this story is true, not
artistic license. I
was orphaned at eighteen,
no sibs, no dad.

And so life is an
erupting Krakatoa,
a Hurricane Katrina,
an unexpected disturbance,
COVID-19, recession
cancer, bipolarity
and yellow jackets,

till the chips are cashed. 

Going Out to a Movie During COVID

Year two of the plague.
A February evening with
coats and scarves to fend off the
violet cold pack of dusk.

I sport a blue Oxford cloth shirt and
khakis, and you, a slinky emerald
wool dress and heels. For a year our
outer skins have been pajama
bottoms and tees, and it feels as
if we have morphed into the
Snow Moon illuminating
the corners of a colorless night.

Perhaps clothes don’t make the man
or woman but I feel as if normality
was slowly repainting my torso.

I reach for the cool brass knob of
the front door, but quickly turn,
draw you close, and say “let’s kiss
before we leave”. A look of surprise,
then your lips part slightly and our
tongues braid a necklace of linked lives.

You take a tissue from your purse,
and reach up, wiping a streak of
scarlet from the corner of my
mouth, then say,
 
“I’ll have to redo my lipstick”

The Girl in the Orange Tank Top at Sarah’s Creek Campground

Standing by my Volvo wagon,
jeans still shedding the fifty-two
degree river that stole my warmth—

rod in right hand, gutted rainbow
trout in left, she approached—face brewing
dismay. Burnished copper hair

and skin white as sea foam. Twenty-two,
maybe. River at my back, campground
ahead I had noticed her waving

a cell, freckled arm extended
as she stood on the door ledge
of her red Toyota Solara

straining to capture a signal wisp.
I suppose the tee was an accent,
accessory for hair and skin.

But why the stress carving her face?
She drew close and said “I left my
cash at home and want to camp for

three nights. They don’t take cards, and
I can’t reach my Mom.” Forest Service
intolerance of both plastic

and scofflaws, is well known, so I
asked “how much do you need?” Clearly
I appraised as “a Dad, no threat”,

dashing my lingering self-
image—an acronym ending
in ILF. I mean, who else

but a Dad has cash “just in case?”
Her eyes dropped to the pine needles
carpeting the ground, while answering

“thirty dollars, I’ll Venmo you.”
I handed her three tens, a
business card, and thought

“mirrors really don’t lie.”

To buy the book, contact Gary at, gdgrossman@gmail.com