Plainspoken portraits of hardscrabble Maine men and women join laconic, trustworthy meditations on middle age, old age, mourning and love in this sixth outing from the underrated McNair (Fire
, 2002). The volume opens with anecdotes and memories of nearly wasted lives: disappointed farmhands, hired men, residents of "the trailer on the way/ to the dump" and refugees from the "innocent" 1950s, as in the very quotable poem that explains "how the first/ black and white TVs made their way/ to the homes of the poor, who loved them best." The second half shifts gears, offering elegies and laments for a lost self: the titular ghosts mingle easily with sympathetic living families, and even, in the likely anthology piece "The Man He Turned Into," with the poet's hopes for his own art. McNair's unornamented American speech and his insistent, blue-collar sincerity recall Philip Levine, but McNair's real precedent lies closer to his Down East home: he is the true heir of Philip Booth, whose quiet lines have long melted New England hearts and won younger poets' warm allegiance, no matter how icy the air outside. (Oct.)
