David Kirby, the W. Guy McKenzie Professor of English at Florida State University, may be an intimidating academic title, but there is nothing academic or intimidating about his memory poems — except maybe some indecipherable French words. Blame them on a sabbatical spent in France, but, you know, if Kirby hadn't gone, he surely wouldn't have written Heat Lightning, with its AH OUI! the nightly sounds of a neighboring tenant, words which need no translation, and also make a great departure point for Kirby's ruminations on sex, the French, life, lightning.
There is something for everyone here, from stodgy intellectuals, who might remember Kirby's work from Best American Poetry 2000, to people who watch COPS while eating dinner, who might remember to chew. Kirby's experiential poems are imbued with self-deprecation, a fondness for life's foibles and a sentimental strain that never goes mawkish. In each of his poems, he heads off into what might seem an irrelevant, even self-indulgent, reverie — Strip Poker starts with Kirby donating a pint of blood, then goes into this funny tale of him at age 8 asking his mom if she wants to play strip poker. He didn't know that it was not a game for just anyone to play, but his parents played it cool, for which he's sort of grateful: If people aren't constantly explaining stuff to you/ when you're a kid, then you grow up mentally active,/ though also doubting everything,/ even yourself, because if you're the one/ who comes up with the answers,/ then what the hell good are they?
Perhaps intentionally, The House of Blue Light wraps up with two poems about Kirby's dead father that will make your heart slip, the final one speculating on a family reunion in the afterlife. These are long, rambling poems, but trust David Kirby — he knows what he's doing. Telling you the whole story as he drives the scenic route home.
This article appears in Apr 19-26, 2001.