Skin

Vandermolen (Water) offers in this finely polished 12th book an assembly of poems that are intricate and sturdy, woven with well-chosen strands of candor: “How difficult to piece one observation/ Into the next without hyperbole or minor lie.” Composed of snippets of conversation and wisps of dreams or memories, and always introspective as they document mid-Western white masculinity at late-middle age, these poems keep company primarily with the poet himself: “In the chill of privacy/ One seeks promise.” These subtle entries are selective in what they say and don’t say, the effect being at once plaintive and endearing. The poet is willing, even eager to list his shortcomings, lapses of judgement, missed moments, outright failures: “I seemed/ To be irrelevant, as harmless as a scarecrow/ Dripping straw,” or “I wish I had more discipline I wanted to tell her./ I was trying to recall an anecdote to offer,/ I was close to one, I had a wisp of it/ When the doorbell rang. Someone selling Bibles.” Vandermolen’s gift for craft and discernment counteracts his tendency toward self-depreciation. The result is a work of abundant pleasures, a testament to art as affirmation of human life. (Apr.)