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Biographical note: Michael Hulse was born in 1955 and grew up in Stoke-on-Trent. He read German at the University of St. Andrews and has taught English and post-colonial literature at universities in Germany and Switzerland. His poetry has earned him numerous awards and taken him on reading tours worldwide, and his work as translator (Goethe, Wassermann, Sebald) has brought him accolades from Susan Sontag, A.S. Byatt and many more. He runs the poetry press, Leviathan, and edits Leviathan Quarterly.
BIC Basic
EAN13: 9781876857462
ISBN-10: 1876857463
ISBN-13: 9781876857462
Author: Michael Hulse
Title: Empires and Holy Lands
Series: Salt Modern Poets
Product class: BC
Language: eng
Audience: General/trade
BIC subject category: CTCH1
Publisher: Salt Publishing
Pub date: 04-Jul-02
Extent: 152pp
Height: 216 mm
Width: 140 mm
Thickness: 9 mm
Weight: 228 gms
Supplier: Gardners Books
Supplier: Ingram Book Group
Supplier: Inbooks (James Bennett)
Availability: IP
Price: GBP 8.95
Price: USD 12.95
Rights: World
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Short
description/annotation: Michael Hulse, born 1955, is one of the most distinguished poets of his generation, and an acclaimed translator and editor. This selection of a quarter century’s work draws on all his books and pamphlets to date and includes sixteen new and uncollected poems.
Main description:
Table of contents:
I Empires
Calcutta Red
Simla
Raffles Hotel
Village Performance
A Chinese Tale
Helicopter
Brunei
Evening at Imogiri
Mother of Battles
Homo Sum
That Christmas
Heathrow
Nine Points of the Nation
Dole Queue
The Bell-ringer
Fornicating and Reading the Papers
Burslem
After Rain
Europe
II Burnings
Twentieth Burning in the Bishopric of Wurzburg
A Family Portrait circa 1900
The Prisoner
Phrenology, 1914
White
Refugees
On Location
One Damn Thing after another
Festival of Youth
To Botho Strauss in Berlin
Roadworkers Picking Cherries
Loreley
To Gottlob Fabian
III Holy Lands
The Winter Ward
The Country of Pain and Revelation
Knowing
Five Poems after Winslow Homer
Rotterdam, 07.50, December 22nd
At Avila
Welcome to the Delectable Mountains
Horns
At Aigues-Mortes
The Pointlessness of Poetry
IV Loves
The Architecture of Air
The Kid
Eating Strawberries in the Necropolis
Windowless Monads
Tangle
Adultery
An Aluminium Casket Would Be a Good Idea
The Evidence of Things not Seen
Concentrating
Carnation, Lily, Lily, Rose
Young Mother
La Gazzetta
Silver Wedding
An American Murder
V Lights
A Sonnet
The Yuppie in Love
To His Coy Mistress
The Sigh
There’s Something About a Cow
Stopping by Woods Without a Map
The Essential Auden
A Treatise on the Astrolabe
The Thunder and Lightning Poker
The Death of Dracula
The Critics Are Too Much With Us View excerpt as PDF:  Click here to view a sample (72 KB)
Excerpt from book:
Twentieth Burning in the Bishopric of Wurzburg
Today we rose early. The autumn smells
of wet air and fallen leafage and rotting
apples and plums and pears were crisped by frost
at that hour. The mist, settled on the hills,
did not, I noticed, lift until midday.
Today we did good work and burnt six. One
was Goebel’s girl, Anna, for many here
in Wurzburg the city’s greatest beauty;
sixteen and, it is true, with a certain
freshness; but we cannot make exceptions.
Another, and one whom, I must confess,
I secretly regret, was young Bernhard,
who played the oboe on April evenings
in his room overlooking the deacon’s
garden. He spoke several languages.
Then the two boys, the twins, the butcher’s boys,
twelve years of age, both of them brats. One day
I watched Alfred, the younger, I believe,
by twenty minutes, crush a starling’s head.
The bird was helpless, had broken a wing.
And there was Stepper’s daughter, Suzannah,
a six-year-old, but already able
to help her father considerably,
who, let’s face it, is a foolish cripple,
and easily the city’s worst cobbler.
Last on the list for today, the creature
who kept the bridge gate: I don’t even know
her name, but remember that as she passed
her odour nearly knocked me out. No loss
to anyone, filthy old so-and-so.
I noticed Frau Braunach among the crowd.
She’s looking older. We burnt her husband,
the senator, the lecherous old lump,
a year or so ago. Funny how it
attracts above all those who have lost most.
It went off very quietly; we sang
till the flames were quite low. Weydenbusch, who
succeeded Schwerdt as choir-master, tells me
this year’s will be an excellent vintage.
And he should know, he owns half the vineyards
round the town. I must see to the cellars.
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