Librería Samer Atenea
Librería Aciertas (Toledo)
Kálamo Books
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Librería Elías (Asturias)
Donde los libros
Librería Kolima (Madrid)
Librería Proteo (Málaga)
We live in an age of memoir. Unlike previous eras, in which readers were encouraged to consider a poem or novel separately from the poet’s or novelist’s biography, the author’s life story seems today to have become the main thing-the primary element upon n In The Biographer, his fifth collection of poems, David M. Katz interrogates and explores that assumption. The book’s title poem, Katz’s longest published work to date, tackles the issue head on. Heavily researched and packed with crucial themes that are indeed close to this particular poet (immigration, child abandonment, the elusiveness of memory, Judaism), 'The Biographer,' is nevertheless entirely fictional, spoken by a female narrator who is clearly not the poet. At the same time, practically all of the book’s other poems might also be called 'biography-adjacent'-autobiographical, memoirish, impersonated, personal. Recollections of early childhood and family romance play a central part, as do Katz’s usual cast of presiding poetic deities, this time including the likes of Hart Crane, Cavafy, Delmore Schwartz, Poe, Dickinson, Joyce, Pound, Rilke, and Marianne Moore. David Katz is a poet whose work resides in a paradise of other poets. SAMPLE Poem:Legend Must DoI was born on the Lower East Side of New YorkTo shopkeepers just off the boat from GalitzIn the Russian Pale. My grandpa’s wrappedIn a story now, in the wooliness of legend.Among the men we have woven intoA generation, he was drafted into the armyOf the Czar. His palooka of a sergeantWas easy game, and grandpa took a pintOf vodka out and got the sergeant drunk.Weaving along the side of a ditchIn a dizzy march, the two moved on,The officer fell in, and my grandpa desertedInto the woods. I have no ideaWhether any of this is true, butLegend must do when the facts are few.My grandpa had an accent, opened upA tailor shop, was father to my motherAnd her sister (a Communist! 'MilkFor babies!' she shouted for the poor).That’s all I remember except for the lumpy vests,The slight white frame, the scar of the appendectomyHe revealed to me, shaving by the frigid toilet.'They cut out half my stomach, boychick.'He smoked Phillies and died when I was eight.
