David Kirby’s latest collection, The Winter Dance Party: Poems 1983-2023, arrives with a whisper of self-deprecation in its preface. Kirby, reflecting on his own poetic style, confesses he’d never considered a collected poems, assuming his personal enjoyment wouldn’t translate to a reader’s. This humble stance, however, fundamentally misunderstands the very essence of Kirby’s appeal, a vibrant and engaging poetic voice that has been captivating readers for decades. To borrow a phrase, Kirby’s poetry isn’t just a read; it’s a Dance Revolution on the page, and this collection is a testament to its enduring power.
For longtime admirers, The Winter Dance Party isn’t just welcome; it’s a deeply desired compendium. Imagine anticipating a grand, sweeping retrospective, only to receive a curated, albeit concise, selection. This isn’t to diminish the present volume, but rather to express the voracious appetite Kirby’s work cultivates. His poems are not slight, airy things. They possess weight, substance, and a captivating gravity that pulls you in and holds you fast. One might wish for a tome of such immensity it could rival Roget’s Thesaurus, a literary leviathan capable of banishing ennui with its sheer mass. Envision strongmen, typically tasked with hauling Volkswagens, instead straining under the heft of Kirby’s complete works, their struggle a humorous exaggeration of the sheer density and richness contained within his poetry. This imagined spectacle underscores a key desire: more, and then some more, of Kirby’s unique poetic voice.
Having followed Kirby’s poetic journey book by book, the desire for a comprehensive collection stems from a deep appreciation for his consistent brilliance. It’s the reader’s equivalent of longing for a multi-volume OED, a literary monument that movers would approach with trepidation, bracing themselves against hernias as they attempt to maneuver its weight. This yearning for enormity isn’t just about quantity; it’s about the immersive experience Kirby’s poetry provides, a world you want to get lost in, and stay lost in, for as long as possible.
The world of poetry can sometimes feel fragmented, with poets championing their own styles and approaches, creating distinct camps. While understandable as a form of self-promotion, this can occasionally obscure the genuine appreciation that exists across these perceived divides. This review isn’t about aligning with a particular poetic clique; it’s about recognizing and celebrating a truly exceptional voice. Unlike poets who delve into darker, nightmarish realms, Kirby’s work, while capable of moments of unease, is fundamentally rooted in human experience, rendered with humor and heart. This isn’t blind allegiance; it’s an honest appraisal from a reader who genuinely values and enjoys Kirby’s contributions. There’s no ethical quandary here, only an enthusiastic endorsement of a poet whose work consistently delivers.
At a modest 280 pages, The Winter Dance Party is a digestible volume, easily consumed in a day. This rapid absorption isn’t due to any lack of depth, but rather to the sheer magnetic quality of Kirby’s writing. Obligations, responsibilities, and distractions melt away as you plunge into his poems, much like Scrooge McDuck diving into his vault of gold. Kirby possesses a remarkable range, capable of eliciting Dave Barry-esque laughter and E.B. White-like tears, sometimes simultaneously. He’s informative without being pedantic, insightful without being obscure, and consistently, profoundly human. His poems are full of heart, and this heart is the engine of his poetic dance revolution. This seemingly slim volume, therefore, leaves you wanting more, a testament to its captivating power. It’s a book to return to, to reread, and to savor, again and again, until the hoped-for Brobdingnagian collection finally materializes. Until then, The Winter Dance Party serves as a potent reminder of David Kirby’s enduring and revolutionary impact on contemporary poetry, a collection deserving of far more than zero stars, even as a piece of metaphorical gym equipment.
