Review by Richard Tillinghast, The Irish Times, Saturday May 16th 2009
Some parts of the United States are familiar to Irish people. Boston is well-known as an Irish city, and at Christmas the NYPD Choir can be relied upon to be singing Galway Bay. But the Midwest, despite being explored by at least a few Irish poets including Eamonn Wall, the late James Liddy and the Irish-American Thomas Lynch, remains terra incognita for many, even in the US. This is the territory David Gardiner claims as his own. In Bungalow Belt he writes, "I was born, raised in Brute, Oblivion . . . . I come from a neighbourhood where 'regular' / Was the supreme compliment . . .".
While properly cognisant of the Midwest's relentless insistence on conformity and homogenisation, "the vacuum that all our pasts are becoming", Gardiner is particularly attuned to the vividness brought to this levelling culture by what is known curiously in America as "ethnic", ie not the familiar identifications such as Wasp, Irish, African-American, but Italian, Polish and less familiar Eastern European nationalities.
He is a connoisseur of "Polish facades and Spanish billboards"; in Imaginary Mazurkas he reports, "At night, I look for the big-kettled kitchens". He likes the bartender in the club car on the commuter train who "learned to speak English twenty-seven years ago / From Old Mr. Boston's De Luxe Bartending Guide ".
Second Street Pesach evocatively blends memories of Catholic and Jewish ancestry; of his great-grandmother, he writes: "Her silence knew the Kishinev pogrom. / Her husband was still; a picture in the bedroom mirror - / in a prayer shawl, standing in important pose, / obscured by the lacey dress of the Child of Prague".
Review: The Midwest Book Review, October 2009
In every community, there are countless bloodlines that compose that society. Downstate is a collection of poetry discussing people and their heritage. Author David Gardiner reflects wistfully on society and its reverence for its heritage; "Downstate" is a fine, insightful, and entertaining volume.
Plains storm, Omaha
Around here, a truck's rumble past is
as natural as wind that rocks the porch swing in your absence.
'God doesn't give his thunder to us all.'
We tell ourselves we're lucky; with our daylilies and dogwoods
we're the stuff that survives, has roots and mind
enough not to stick our heads above neighboring flowers.
The winds, the sirens, and the early bathtimes
all fall together to make our long horizons,
hang together as the front porchswing rocks
with silhouettes of wild roses waiting for the storm.
The front of a life that blows in from elsewhere.