Dear Prudence: New and Selected Poems by David Trinidad
By David Trinidad
"This magnum opus confirms David Trinidad's position within the poetic firmament: he's easily the simplest we've got. A worthwhile successor to James Schuyler, Trinidad writes soulfully and occasionally photorealistically in regards to the depression threshold the place dolls and stars turn into internal objects—dirty, glamorous, destructible. Jacqueline Susann meets Sei Shonagon? Trinidad manages to mix neo-formalist abstraction with dripping lovely figuration: Bonnard's rainy dream."—Wayne Koestenbaum
"This is a quantity celebratory in tone, panoramic in scope, humorous, and surely relocating. Trinidad is on the heart of what's proper in his artwork. And this assortment is extra important and extra relaxing than any unmarried functionality he has given hence far."—D.A. Powell
"Trinidad attends to the current to determine into the earlier with such needle element precision it's like encountering a superbly appointed motion picture set the place own reminiscence crosses in detail with cultural reminiscence. Poetic shape in Trinidad's arms is a metaphor for staking a declare at the fabric global at the same time it slips away in a shimmery Hollywood dissolve—a determined, doomed reclamation of all which may by no means be held lengthy enough."—Robyn Schiff
"Utterly deadpan and astonishingly fine" is how Publishers Weekly defined the poems of David Trinidad. And here's the gathering all David Trinidad fanatics were ready for—the first e-book to have works from all his prior books in addition to 40 new poems: Dear Prudence: New and chosen Poems.
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Extra resources for Dear Prudence: New and Selected Poems
This suburb of identical, pillow-mint homes? The sky, too, is pastel. Children roller skate down the new sidewalk. Fathers stake young trees. Mothers plan baby showers and Tupperware parties. The Avon Lady treks door to door. Six or seven years old, I stand on the front porch, hand on the decorative cast-iron trellis that frames it, squinting in California sunlight, striped short-sleeved shirt buttoned at the neck. I sit in the backyard (this picture’s black-and-white), my Flintstones playset spread out on the grass.
She and Mrs. Boyer stopped talking, each tensely aware of the other’s comings and goings. Later they made up, right before the Boyers moved. The day Marilyn Monroe died (I was nine) I saw the newspaper, with her picture on the front page, on Jean Silvernail’s coƒee table. Jean was a mysterious housewife, revealed, as I got older, the details of her unhappy past. Because she knew I wanted to be a writer, she bought me a copy of Daphne du Maurier’s Rebecca. “This is my story,” she said. In high school, when I’d go next door to complain about my father, Jean let me smoke her Virginia Slims.
21 So much depended upon sponsors: Peyton Place is brought to you by . . 22 Note the orderly. No lines, but that look he gives Malone speaks volumes. 23 Lies, secrets, gossip and fucked-up families make this black-and-white world tick. 24 Both brothers shirtless in Norman’s bedroom. Who cares what’s in Mother’s will. [ 25 ] 25 Did Dorothy dream I’d gape, forty-ﬁve years later, at her queer blonde hair? 26 For days I haven’t been able to get the theme song out of my head. 27 After the credits, autumn leaves litter the path.