Old Growth: New & Selected Poems by Mike O'Connor
Mike O'Connor published a dozen books of poetry, short fiction and translations from the Chinese during his lifetime, often mixing genres fluidly in his books. Old Growth gathers a generous selection of the best of O'Connor's original lyric poetry along with a sampling of new and uncollected poems. This collection offers readers access to the arc of O'Connor's lifelong dedication to poetry, and to the poignant humor, insight and compassion that have illuminated his most enduring poems. Old Growth is essential reading by one of the Northwest's most engaging poets.
Mike O’Connor was one of the first authentic bioregion poets. He’d never have said it like that, but there he was, digging into place. He was also big-bioregion cosmopolitan. One day we’ll see how his poetry helped form the North Pacific Rim literary ecosystem. He grew up on the Olympic Peninsula—one point of reference—then twelve years on Taiwan—another point—and carved subtle, careful translations of the Chinese poets, his masters. What is east, what is west? I got to know him during two years he spent in Colorado. We climbed peaks, swapped funny deep talk, and recited our poems to each other. With this collection of poems old & new, I’m suddenly laughing & crying. That’s how good he is.
Andrew Schelling
With sly humor and an irrepressible boyish enthusiasm Mike O’Connor chronicles his hardscrabble adventures exploring and working in the mountains and river valleys of his native Olympic Peninsula, followed by many years in Taiwan studying and translating Chinese poetry—all this permeated by a Buddhist practice. Blue-collar America meets the Tang dynasty! Old Growth is much more than a book of poems. It is the record of a man’s life. Clemens Starck
Mike O'Connor's exuberant take on life never fails to delight. Always observant, bicycling crazily through Taipei’s traffic, or aching after a day of tree-planting in the Olympics, he makes friends with the world, the ancient Zen poets, and his contemporaries. Images sparkle through the poems, inviting us to join him: “last night’s rain/ blinked sky-colored/ on the pines—but I/ did not wake to you”; or “I’d be up, though, in a whirlwind/ of bedding and long-johns. . . to have you here quiet and lovely . . . .The grass has left dew on your tennis shoes.” A poet's job, Mike reminds us, is to engage with the world: “you should be scared/ enough to pay attention”.
Charlotte Gould Warren