In Solar Perplexus, Dean Young uses the surreal as the thread which weaves in and out of complications of existence. The result is a textured, honest work that grapples with what it means to love, lose, and hang in the afterward. Suddenly the boundaries of our everyday are shaken―and yet instead of being thrown off balance, our understanding is cracked open. Young holds us between un/reality, tracing the circle of life and death, and exposing the true closeness between extremes. It is this true intimacy that both unsettles and comforts. Solar Perplexus turns identity on its head as it questions self (against) control, with each eerily familiar moment of humor punctuated with an inevitable doubt.
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Dean Young is the author of seventeen books of poetry and poetic theory. His iconic, comedic style is derived from the New York School of Poetry and from contemporary art movements like Surrealism and Dadaism. In an interview with the University of Arizona Poetry Center, Young said, “For me the human drama, the squishy, time-limited pulse, is always at the center of the poem.” His book Elegy on Toy Piano was a finalist for the Pulitzer Prize in 2006, and his work has been celebrated with the Academy Award in Literature and the Colorado Prize for Poetry. Dean Young served as the Texas Poet Laurate and has received multiple fellowships, including the National Endowment of the Arts Fellowship, the Stegner Fellowship, and the John Simon Guggenheim Memorial Foundation Fellowship. He currently holds the position of William Livingston Chair of Poetry at the University of Texas, Austin.
Anniversary Poem
When you gave me a walnut,
it was different than when you gave me
a monarch wing which I taped
to my notebook. Other things
I’ve taped: flattened wildflowers,
a leaf that was in the tub with you,
a few dead ants who were red and black
like Mayan gods. I recommend packing tape,
it’s wide and strong and doesn’t yellow.
When you gave me the walnut
I wondered if I should eat it,
put it in a drawer with the glove
I found in a rosebush, plant it or give it
to a squirrel to more professionally plant.
We talked it over without talking,
putting our hands inside each other’s coats
while snow crystalized small bits
of oblivion which doesn’t seem like
people’d have heart attacks shoveling
but you’d be wrong. The walnut
had not come from the millionaire-hippy co-op
where once I ate a rotisserie chicken
in my car in the parking lot for warmth
waiting for a tow truck jump.
If I had called you, you would
have been in New York which is where
you were. Sometimes I’m there
with you looking at filtched treasure
from the pyramids but also in Iowa City,
Berkeley, Bloomington, even Columbia,
Pennsylvania where I was born and learned
to walk down alleys to the river
befriending sad, fenced-in dogs,
not even caring if I ever got married
but if you asked, I would have asked you.
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