Actual Air

Actual Air by David Berman was the only collection of poetry I read last year. I normally don't read whole collections of poetry, unless they're written by people I know (Joseph Millar, Bonnie Arning), or genius Poet Laureates (Kay Ryan). But Berman released an album last summer, under the name "Purple Mountains." And I had been listening to a lot of Silver Jews. And he died by suicide in August. 

Actual Air was written in 1999, a totally different time. He wasn't married then, or separated; he hadn't hit the low points of addiction or his estranged relationship with his conservative lobbyist father. He was a young nineties artist making wry, ironic observations about a pre-internet world. The collection is mostly a delight, with a few high points ("Snow," "Self-Portrait at 28"), and a few more forgettable, too-cute experiments in wordplay. Still, I was entertained. A surprise favorite was the last poem, "The Double Bell of Heat." A deaf adult man returns to his parents' house and brakes for their "Slow Deaf Child" sign. It's funny and strange and a little sad: exactly how I think of David Berman when I remember him, which is often.