Matthew Dickman – författare

At the center of Mayakovsky’s Revolver is the suicide of Matthew Dickman’s older brother. “Known for poems of universality of feeling, expressive lyricism of reflection, and heartrending allure” (Major Jackson), Dickman is a powerful poet whose new collection explores how to persevere in the wake of grief.from “Mayakovsky’s Revolver”I keep thinking about the wayblackberries will make the mouthof an eight year old look like he’s a ghostthat’s been shot in the face. In the dark I can seemy older brother walking through the tall brushof his brain. I can see him standingin the lobby of the hotel,alone, crying along with the ice machine.

A dual-authored volume of poems from the multi-award winning Dickman twins - leading voices in America's outstanding generation of younger poets.Although the brothers extol differing inspirations (Matthew writes with the ebullience of Frank O'Hara, Allen Ginsberg and Jack Kerouac, Michael with the control of William Carlos Williams and Emily Dickinson), they are unified by the unflinching, remarkable verse they wrote when their older sibling tragically took his own life. It is these moving, grieving but life-affirming poems that solely comprise this dual-authored volume. Published in an inventive tête-bêche edition, the poems appear head-to-toe, communing in the middle, making Brother a searing but ultimately up-lifting journey of grief, love and family.'Michael's poems are interior, fragmentary, and austere, often stripped down to single-word lines; they seethe with incipient violence. Matthew's are effusive, ecstatic, and all-embracing, spilling over with pop-cultural references and exuberant carnality . . . together, the resonance of the work is amplified.' New YorkerMatthew Dickman is the author of All-American Poem (2008), 50 American Plays (co-written with his twin brother Michael Dickman, 2012), Mayakovsky's Revolver (2012),Wish You Were Here (2013) and 24 HOURS (2014). He is the recipient of The May Sarton Award from the American Academy of Arts and Sciences, the Kate Tufts Award from Claremont College and a 2015 Guggenheim award. Matthew Dickman is the Poetry Editor of Tin House magazine. He lives in Portland, Oregon.Michael Dickman is the author of three books of poems, The End of the West (2009), Flies (2011, Winner of the James Laughlin Award), and Green Migraine (2015), as well as a book of plays, 50 American Plays, co-written with his twin brother, Matthew Dickman, in 2012. He lives in Princeton, New Jersey, where he is on the faculty at Princeton University.

Guided by acclaimed poet Matthew Dickman’s signature "clarity and ability to engage" (David Kirby, New York Times), Husbandry is a love song from a father to his children. Written after a separation and during overwhelming single-fatherhood in the early days of COVID-19 lockdowns, Husbandry refuses romantic notions of parenting and embraces all its mess, anguish, humor, fear, boredom, and warmth.Dickman composes these poems entirely in vivid couplets that animate the various domestic pairs of broken-up parents, two sons, love and grief. He explores the terrain of his children’s dreams and nightmares, the almost primal fears that spill into his own, and the residual impacts of his parents’ failures. Threading his anxieties with bright moments of beauty and gratitude, the volume delights in seeing the world through the clear eyes of childhood and finds meaning in the domestic work—repetitive, exhausting, and sublime—of sustaining three lives.With tender, aching precision, Husbandry reveals the poet’s hunger to be a husband without ever being one, and his search for a father that ends with becoming one himself.

At the center of Mayakovsky’s Revolver is the suicide of Matthew Dickman’s older brother. “Known for poems of universality of feeling, expressive lyricism of reflection, and heartrending allure” (Major Jackson), Dickman is a powerful poet whose new collection explores how to persevere in the wake of grief.from “Mayakovsky’s Revolver”I keep thinking about the wayblackberries will make the mouthof an eight year old look like he’s a ghostthat’s been shot in the face. In the dark I can seemy older brother walking through the tall brushof his brain. I can see him standingin the lobby of the hotel,alone, crying along with the ice machine.