Krok

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Peter Krok

LOOKING

for an

EYE

Looking for an Eye follows in the long tradition of quest literature. The poems here are replete with searching; existence is interrogated relentlessly. Pablo Neruda's Book of Questions may contain more questions than does Peter Krok's collection, but his runs a close second. “Corners” portrays a child who is the poster-child for the book: “So much he doesn't understand, / he keeps raising his hand.” And each time he does, another poem appears. Yet Krok appealingly eschews any heroic, inflated tones; after referencing a cricket, he wryly and modestly asks, “what kind of noisemaker / would you call me?” Krok's “noise” is welcome. Consistently unafraid to expose his vulnerability, Krok in effect reminds us of Yeats' idea that poetry arises from a “quarrel with ourselves.” In the forceful “My City,” Krok writes of “restless arteries,” the city's, but they could be the arteries of this book. Readers who “have no answer for the dusk” will find a home here.

Philip Dacey

--------------------------------------------------------------------------

One of Peter Krok's poems asks, “Do the consequences of our questions / make us what we are?” From the evidence in Looking for an Eye, one surmises that Krok's own answer is yes, because he poses us to the self-defining questions poets insist on posing. Like Frost's “Acquainted with the Night,” Krok's title poem asks what happens when one drops one's eyes, unwilling to explain. Like the speaker in Frost's “A Minor Bird, the speaker in Krok's “The Disturbance” turns projected anger at another singer into interrogation of his own song. Like Yeats's “To a Friend Whose Work Has Come to Nothing,” Krok's “To a Friend Who Suffers” asks about the possibility of consolation. Like Dylan Thomas's “A Refusal to Mourn the Death by Fire of a Child in London ,” Krok's “Constance Adams” interrogates the ultimate value of grief. Poetry makes nothing happen, true' Krok's formulation is “I know it couldn't have been any different.” But poetry is also unwearied, for ever piping sons; Krok's next sentence is “Yet the breath of Windsong still lingers.”

H. L .Hix

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A skilled book of poems that strike to the heart about those who “watch” and “wave” and no less those who “never return,” about invisible walls among us, about questions that grow “like a vine in the earth,” about the inexplicable comfort of rain. Profound and endearing are the ways people are enriched by their contexts ? the bocce players silhouetted under the stars, the friend caught in suffering, the echoes of the past that, like the tide, comes back. A warm and well-crafted book with great appeal.

Franklin Reeve

--------------------------------------------------------------------------

How unsettling these poems are, and how compelling! Peter Krok writes as if the phenomena of daily life were themselves “looking for an eye”-specifically the poet's keenly attentive eye-to record their own agonizing need to be noted and remembered.

Nothing about the human condition escapes these poems: the individual's isolation and regret, the painful subtleties of relationships on the brink, the endless human search for “a voice at the other end,” the pull of memory. All of those are here, in poems that take the reader to the funeral of a playmate dead in childhood, the homes and workplaces of the urban poor, the rocking chair where an old man naps with his dog, or the quiet secret spaces of introspection.

Whether the poet speaks for himself or for us all, what he says attests to the unwavering honesty of the eye with which he sees, and the effectiveness of the stark imagery in which he creates the view. Here, in language somewhat reminiscent of Charles Simic, is a recreation center at night, in Philadelphia : “Hours crawl like cats under fenders. The playground shuts its eyes.”

And here, the final stanza of “To a Friend Who Suffers” conveys wholly genuine feeling, naked and unmuted by irony:

If I forged the healing art,

I'd take your heart and splint

the broken eggshell of your body.

I would raise you on my shoulders

and carry you across the earth.

Peter Krok has put together a collection of poems that cannot fail to communicate at the deepest human level, one that will stay with the reader long after the reading.

Rhina P. Espaillat

From the book:

RETURNING

Always you return to these streets,

these red brick rows where you grew

from daydream adolescent to daydream father.

Here you served from altar boy to usher.

Here you strolled on solitary evenings

under stars, always asking questions

of life and tomorrow.

Here the gray ancient dome of St. Francis.

The walls arc a stone sense of past

over the ribs of its red brick parish.

Inside, plaster peals beside the figurines

of Stations where whisperers still recite

the Way. In alcoves the faithful

light candles for remembered shadows.

Here Saturday evenings you went

with your white-scarfed mother

to prepare always for the voice

behind the curtain and tomorrow.

When that tomorrow came,

you found your way returning

to the recess of the bells.

TO A FRIEND WHO SUFFERS

My fragile smiling friend,

how tender your limbs,

the branches of your life,

the hurt roots

of your broken body.

If one could only mend

you back and make you rise

like Lazarus.

I cannot look through your window.

Each bears suffering alone.

How natural your attachment to birds,

to wings, to the mystery of air.

DaVinci couldn't bear to see birds caged,

so he paid the peddler to let them go.

I will not be resigned to poor words.

If I forged the healing art,

I'd take your heart and splint

the broken eggshell of your body.

I would raise you on my shoulders

and carry you across the earth.

Peter Krok was born in West Berlin and he came to the United States

during the Berlin Air Lift. His mother was a German war bride. He is

editor of the Schuylkill Valley Journal and humanities director of the

Manayunk Art Center where he has been coordinating a literary series

since 1990. He is often referred to as the "red brick poet" because of

his association with red brick Philadelphia where he grew up. The

connection to the city continues to resonate in his work. He lives now in

a red brick cape cod house in Havertown, PA.

Looking for an Eye

is a 76 page hand-sewn book with spine - $15.00

TO ORDER ON-LINE

To order through mail click here.


	FootHills Publishing \| home Submitting to FootHills \| 2007 Books \| Zazulyer \| James \| Spiers \| Hoogestraat \| Lochridge \| Lehmann \| Gittings-Dalton \| Bashkirew \| Good \| Rivera \| Calhoun \| Deer Cloud \| Wright \| Miller \| Milby \| Bird \| Quetchenbach \| Gordon \| Riche \| Richardson \| Brown \| Schwartz \| Rossiter \| Graser \| Owens \| Merrifield \| Thomas \| Krok \| Jennings \| Stelzig \| Faurot \| Costanzo \| Ordering by Mail \| Contact FHP Peter Krok LOOKING for an EYE Looking for an Eye follows in the long tradition of quest literature. The poems here are replete with searching; existence is interrogated relentlessly. Pablo Neruda's Book of Questions may contain more questions than does Peter Krok's collection, but his runs a close second. “Corners” portrays a child who is the poster-child for the book: “So much he doesn't understand, / he keeps raising his hand.” And each time he does, another poem appears. Yet Krok appealingly eschews any heroic, inflated tones; after referencing a cricket, he wryly and modestly asks, “what kind of noisemaker / would you call me?” Krok's “noise” is welcome. Consistently unafraid to expose his vulnerability, Krok in effect reminds us of Yeats' idea that poetry arises from a “quarrel with ourselves.” In the forceful “My City,” Krok writes of “restless arteries,” the city's, but they could be the arteries of this book. Readers who “have no answer for the dusk” will find a home here. Philip Dacey -------------------------------------------------------------------------- One of Peter Krok's poems asks, “Do the consequences of our questions / make us what we are?” From the evidence in Looking for an Eye, one surmises that Krok's own answer is yes, because he poses us to the self-defining questions poets insist on posing. Like Frost's “Acquainted with the Night,” Krok's title poem asks what happens when one drops one's eyes, unwilling to explain. Like the speaker in Frost's “A Minor Bird, the speaker in Krok's “The Disturbance” turns projected anger at another singer into interrogation of his own song. Like Yeats's “To a Friend Whose Work Has Come to Nothing,” Krok's “To a Friend Who Suffers” asks about the possibility of consolation. Like Dylan Thomas's “A Refusal to Mourn the Death by Fire of a Child in London ,” Krok's “Constance Adams” interrogates the ultimate value of grief. Poetry makes nothing happen, true' Krok's formulation is “I know it couldn't have been any different.” But poetry is also unwearied, for ever piping sons; Krok's next sentence is “Yet the breath of Windsong still lingers.” H. L .Hix -------------------------------------------------------------------------- A skilled book of poems that strike to the heart about those who “watch” and “wave” and no less those who “never return,” about invisible walls among us, about questions that grow “like a vine in the earth,” about the inexplicable comfort of rain. Profound and endearing are the ways people are enriched by their contexts ? the bocce players silhouetted under the stars, the friend caught in suffering, the echoes of the past that, like the tide, comes back. A warm and well-crafted book with great appeal. Franklin Reeve -------------------------------------------------------------------------- How unsettling these poems are, and how compelling! Peter Krok writes as if the phenomena of daily life were themselves “looking for an eye”-specifically the poet's keenly attentive eye-to record their own agonizing need to be noted and remembered. Nothing about the human condition escapes these poems: the individual's isolation and regret, the painful subtleties of relationships on the brink, the endless human search for “a voice at the other end,” the pull of memory. All of those are here, in poems that take the reader to the funeral of a playmate dead in childhood, the homes and workplaces of the urban poor, the rocking chair where an old man naps with his dog, or the quiet secret spaces of introspection. Whether the poet speaks for himself or for us all, what he says attests to the unwavering honesty of the eye with which he sees, and the effectiveness of the stark imagery in which he creates the view. Here, in language somewhat reminiscent of Charles Simic, is a recreation center at night, in Philadelphia : “Hours crawl like cats under fenders. The playground shuts its eyes.” And here, the final stanza of “To a Friend Who Suffers” conveys wholly genuine feeling, naked and unmuted by irony: If I forged the healing art, I'd take your heart and splint the broken eggshell of your body. I would raise you on my shoulders and carry you across the earth. Peter Krok has put together a collection of poems that cannot fail to communicate at the deepest human level, one that will stay with the reader long after the reading. Rhina P. Espaillat From the book: RETURNING Always you return to these streets, these red brick rows where you grew from daydream adolescent to daydream father. Here you served from altar boy to usher. Here you strolled on solitary evenings under stars, always asking questions of life and tomorrow. Here the gray ancient dome of St. Francis. The walls arc a stone sense of past over the ribs of its red brick parish. Inside, plaster peals beside the figurines of Stations where whisperers still recite the Way. In alcoves the faithful light candles for remembered shadows. Here Saturday evenings you went with your white-scarfed mother to prepare always for the voice behind the curtain and tomorrow. When that tomorrow came, you found your way returning to the recess of the bells. TO A FRIEND WHO SUFFERS My fragile smiling friend, how tender your limbs, the branches of your life, the hurt roots of your broken body. If one could only mend you back and make you rise like Lazarus. I cannot look through your window. Each bears suffering alone. How natural your attachment to birds, to wings, to the mystery of air. DaVinci couldn't bear to see birds caged, so he paid the peddler to let them go. I will not be resigned to poor words. If I forged the healing art, I'd take your heart and splint the broken eggshell of your body. I would raise you on my shoulders and carry you across the earth. Peter Krok was born in West Berlin and he came to the United States during the Berlin Air Lift. His mother was a German war bride. He is editor of the Schuylkill Valley Journal and humanities director of the Manayunk Art Center where he has been coordinating a literary series since 1990. He is often referred to as the "red brick poet" because of his association with red brick Philadelphia where he grew up. The connection to the city continues to resonate in his work. He lives now in a red brick cape cod house in Havertown, PA. Looking for an Eye is a 76 page hand-sewn book with spine - $15.00 TO ORDER ON-LINE To order through mail click here.