(note: this word may be removed at your discretion, Tim)
An introduction should retreat with a dipping stride like Thomas Mann’s Magician as quickly as possible. I make it a promise.
A new poetry magazine ought to contain something new. Silver (as in apples of the moon, with Cynthia bending oblingingly [sic] so we can stroke her breasts) offers new texture, new sensations, and new teasings of the Veil. David Gitin’s poem (a poem without Wordsworthian arms to shake and shake us into numb prose sense) “No News” is a good example. It simply fuses us to its world with unprepossessing strength:
in a building designed
by Frank Lloyd Wright
Or mounts and rides us into many corners, as in another Gitin poem:
the museum, the zoo—
There are burrs of unmistakable and irresistable [sic] humor. Page sculpture for ears as well as eyes:
[as John Perreault’s] “please fold”
and venom for the earth-beaters. Ron Schreiber speaking from “letter” where he is “stuck in the slime of a dying planet”:
… Jerusalem ain’t tomorrow
Blake says it’s step over that dead body now.
Silver is for below the neck and anatomically elsewhere. It is quite distant from poetry whose experience suggests light knifing from hooded lids or luminous glazes of semen arranging themselves into maps of London.
Here are incisive and delicate poems by (almost to a name) people I had never read before. They are (almost to a name) people I wanted to read again immediately.
— Norman C. Mallory, Silver (1972)