Lee, Li-Young (Contemporary Literary Criticism)
Li-Young Lee 1957-
Indonesian-born American poet and memoirist.
The following entry presents an overview of Lee's career through 2001.
Though born in Indonesia, Lee is reckoned among America's most promising contemporary poets for his multicultural blending of literary motifs. Lee has written only a handful of award-winning poetry collections, yet he has engaged readers with his musings on childhood and alienation as well as his explorations of family relationships, particularly those between father and son. Widely praised by critics for their gentle tone, humble voice, and lyrical form, Lee's poems have often been stylistically and thematically compared to a diverse range of poetry in the Asian, European, and American literary traditions.
Lee was born in Jakarta, Indonesia, on August 19, 1957, the son of a former personal physician to Chinese chairman Mao Tsetung. In Jakarta, Lee's father also helped to found Gamaliel University where he taught English and philosophy until 1958, when he was arrested during a period of intense anti-Chinese sentiment. Shortly reunited, Lee and his family later fled Indonesia in 1959, traveling through Hong Kong, Macau, and Japan until 1964, when they finally settled in the United States. Eventually declaring American citizenship, Lee attended high school in Pennsylvania and later enrolled at the University of Pittsburgh, where he received a B.A. degree in 1979. He subsequently attended both the University of Arizona and State University of New York at Brockport and later lectured at several American universities, including Northwestern and the University of Iowa. In 1986, Lee published his first book of poetry, Rose, which won the Delmore Schwartz Memorial Poetry Award. In 1989, Lee was featured on Bill Moyer's Public Broadcast System (PBS) series The Power of the Word; he also received a fellowship from the prestigious Guggenheim Foundation. The City in Which I Love You, Lee's second poetry collection, appeared in 1990 and was selected by the Academy of American Poets for its Lamont Poetry prize. In 1995, Lee published the autobiographical The Winged Seed. Since then, Lee has written a third collection of poems entitled Book of My Nights (2001).
Drawing upon a range of lyrical conventions from classical Chinese poetry and Biblical palmistry to nineteenth-century Romanticism, the recurrent themes of Lee's poetry generally include his perceptions of the Chinese diaspora, his understanding and acceptance of his own father, and his identity as formed in relation to his native and adopted languages. The poems of Rose center on Lee's painful memories of his family's emigration from Indonesia and question his relationship to the past and with his family, particularly with his father. “The Gift,” for example, recalls the time when Lee's father cut a metal splinter from Lee's hand as a child. During the painful procedure, his father tells him a story to keep his mind off the knife and the pain. Later in the poem, while he removes a splinter form his wife's hand, an adult Lee remembers his father's earlier care and tenderness. In another poem, “Rain Diary,” Lee recounts his father's struggling and bravery in the face of political upheaval in Indonesia. Themes of loss, exile, and dispossession mark the content of both Rose and The City in Which I Love You, Lee's second collection. “The Interrogation,” for instance, relates images of political turmoil and violence from Lee's childhood in Jakarta. Other poems in this collection meditate on feelings of cultural alienation or marginalization experienced by Lee in “foreign” societies, as an exile. Suffused with “unorthodox” imagery and pervaded by unsettling dark visions, most of the poems of The City in Which I Love You deal with Lee's love for his wife and son, but some are also colored by the poet's memories of past times with his father, with whom the poet here strongly identifies. Romantic in tone and lyrical in style, the autobiographical The Winged Seed recounts the events of Lee's constantly interrupted childhood in Indonesia, Macao, Japan, and the United States. The title of Lee's memoirs alludes to his father's incessant habit of carrying a pocketful of seeds wherever he went, as a kind of remembrance. Book of My Nights again returns to issues surrounding Lee's Asian heritage and family, his sense of cultural alienation as a Chinese exile living in America, and his doubts about adequately perceiving his own cross-cultural identity.
Most critics have praised Lee's intimate poetry for its tender tone, elegant form, and poignant memories, although others have also discussed the role of “memory” and “family” in his verse, focusing on Lee's turbulent childhood and his life as an American citizen and artist. Many reviewers have labeled Lee as a “Chinese-American” poet, maintaining that his experiences as an Asian èmigrè to the United States inform much of his work, but some scholars have asserted that Lee's thematic concerns are universal, resisting the conventional urge to confine readings of his poetry to an ethnocentric context. Nonetheless, most commentators have situated his works within the cultural context of other Asian-American poets, such as Marilyn Chin, Garrett Hongo, and David Mura, detecting similar thematic and stylistic concerns. Acknowledging Lee's poetic voice and unique vision, however, most critics have agreed that Lee's contributions have invigorated the first-person, “confessional” poetry of self-examination that has characterized much contemporary American poetry since the 1960s.
SOURCE: Smock, Frederick. “So Close to the Bone.” American Book Review 10, no. 1 (March-April 1988): 7, 14.
[In the following review, Smock analyzes the style of Rose.]
The first poem by Li-Young Lee I ever read, in The American Poetry Review, was called “The Gift,” about a father cutting a metal splinter from his son's hand—how the father told a story throughout so the boy would watch him and not the blade. How the father's tenderness so impressed the boy that, when it was over, he “did what a child does / when he's given something to keep. / I kissed my father.” And how the boy, now grown up, is bending over a splinter in his wife's hand and (presumably) distracting her with this story about his father.
The poem never really left me. Since that time I have been alert to Lee's poems wherever they might appear, and I have appreciated them for their beauty, simplicity, intimacy. Here, for example, is “I Ask My Mother To Sing”:
She begins, and my grandmother joins her. Mother and daughter sing like young girls. If my father were alive, he would play his accordion and sway like a boat.
I've never been in Peking, or the Summer Palace, nor stood on the great Stone Boat to watch the rain begin on Kuen Ming Lake, the picnickers running away in the grass.
But I love to hear it sung: how the waterlilies fill with...
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SOURCE: Nobles, Edward. Review of Rose, by Li-Young Lee. Southern Humanities Review 22, no. 2 (spring 1988): 200-01.
[In the following review, Nobles assesses the themes and imagery of Rose.]
Winner of the Delmore Schwartz Memorial Poetry Award, Li-Young Lee's first book, Rose, is an accomplishment and an inspiration. The best poems here are willing to aspire, to be emotional, to risk failure in an attempt to grapple with those large (though too often trivialized) issues: religion, inheritance, love, death, the passage of time.
Love, how the hours accumulate. Uncountable. The trees grow tall, some people walk away and diminish forever. The damp pewter days slip around without warning and we cross over one year and one year.
The poems are invocations, full of doubts, questionings, hopes, dreams, despairs; they stop, start, weave, sweep outward in great rushes of emotion. The poems work in phrases and coagulations of images. In “Dreaming of Hair,” the hair weaves the images, building powerfully in emotion as the poem moves from place to place, through time and the imagination.
Ivy ties the cellar door in autumn, in summer morning glory wraps the ribs of a mouse. Love binds me to the one whose hair I've found in my mouth, whose sleeping head I kiss, wondering is it death? beauty? this dark star spreading in every direction from the crown of...
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SOURCE: Kitchen, Judith. “Speaking Passions.” Georgia Review 42, no. 2 (summer 1988): 407-22.
[In the following excerpt, Kitchen describes the themes and style of Rose, examining their relationship to the imagery.]
When a poem raises a lump in the throat time after time, it must either be terribly bad or terribly good. In the case of a young Chinese-American poet, Li-Young Lee, there is very little question as to how good these poems [in Rose] are. It's how they are good that is hard to define—a question Gerald Stern tackles, but does not answer, in his introduction to Rose. Stern compares Lee to Keats and Rilke, but I feel he is most like Neruda—the Neruda in love with the sensory experiences of the world, the Neruda of the wide associative leaps that make sense only through feeling. What we have here is a fine lyric voice, singing from the very first lines:
Of wisdom, splendid columns of light waking sweet foreheads, I know nothing
but what I've glimpsed in my most hopeful of daydreams. Of a world without end, amen,
I know nothing, but what I sang of once with others, all of us standing in the vaulted room.
Rose chronicles (though not in any direct narrative) a family exodus from China to Indonesia to America. The figure of the father haunts the book—a...
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SOURCE: Rector, Liam. “The Documentary of What Is.” Hudson Review 41, no. 2 (summer 1988): 393-400.
[In the following excerpt, Rector examines the lyrical structure and sense of character that mark Rose, comparing Lee's work to Rainer Maria Rilke's.]
Much of the recent chatter about poetry has centered upon “form” as it exists solely in the prosodic, technical sense, and the debate between the “new formalists” (nothing new there, really?) and “free verse” hounds us into the present. In a truly amusing inversion, it's now the formalists lobbing grenades into the foxholes of the free verse status quo. Oh, the pendulum … and beneath it, or to the side of it, real history. Whether one is working in received patterns which exist a priori to the composition of a poem, forms which are then adhered to, expanded upon, corrupted, tricked-out, or reinvented, or whether one composes “by field” in an “organic” grid of free verse “discoveries,” what's most left out of this action and discussion is any sense of form as it exists in the dramatic movements of a given poem, as it exists in the subtext of form where words and their meanings move rhetorically, dramatically, as this might be discussed by novelists, playwrights, scriptwriters—dramatists of all stripes—in delineating the rise and fall of meaning as a matter of form.
As Donald Hall has...
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SOURCE: Mitchell, Roger. Review of Rose, by Li-Young Lee. Prairie Schooner 63, no. 3 (fall 1989): 129-37.
[In the following excerpt, Mitchell defines the tenderness of Rose, deeming Lee a promising new poet.]
Rose, Li-Young Lee's first book, begins the career of a promising poet. Lee is one of a rising number of Asian-American writers, though in Rose that background is not an issue. One line refers to someone “exiled from one republic and daily defeated in another.” Two other lines recall someone “who was driven from the foreign schoolyards / by fists and yelling, who trembled in anger in each retelling.” There is a poem, too, about relatives singing and remembering China. But Lee does not dwell on grievances. He recreates, instead, “immedicable woes” (Frost's term) about his love for his father. I don't think Lee set out to write a book about the loss of his father, as David Ray did about his son's loss, but the dead father enters almost all of these poems like a half-bidden ghost. So close is the father that Lee asks at the end of “Ash, Snow or Moonlight,” “Is this my father's life or mine?”
In a book that records many gifts, small and large, intended and unintended, “The Gift” describes the son's principle debt to his father. In taking a metal splinter from his son's hand years before, his father recited a story in a low voice....
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SOURCE: Muske, Carol. “Sons, Lovers, Immigrant Souls.” New York Times Book Review 96 (27 January 1991): 20-21.
[In the following excerpt, Muske comments on the various literary traditions that inform The City in Which I Love You.]
The 1990 Lamont Selection is The City in Which I Love You by Li-Young Lee, who was born in Jakarta. In the 1950's, his father was a political prisoner for a time. The family fled Indonesia and Mr. Lee traveled through Hong Kong, Macau and Japan before coming to the United States when the poet was a child. His poems are explosive and earthy, and in “The City in Which I Love You” he has come into his own:
He gossips like my grandmother, this man with my face, and I could stand amused all afternoon in the Hon Kee Grocery, amid hanging meats he chops: roast pork cut from a hog hung by the nose and shoulders. her entire skin burnt crisp, flesh I know to be sweet, her shining face grinning up at ducks dangling single file, each pierced by black hooks through breast, bill … I step to the counter, recite, and he, without even slightly varying the rhythm of his current confession or harangue, scribbles my order on a greasy receipt, and chops it up quick.
Like a pairing of Walt Whitman with the great Tang dynasty poet Tu Fu, Li-Young Lee emerges as an audacious and passionate poet-traveler. In the manner of Tang poetry, he...
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SOURCE: Hamill, Sam. “A Fool's Paradise.” American Poetry Review, 20, no. 2 (March-April 1991): 33-40.
[In the following excerpt, Hamill discusses the themes, styles, and poetic forms of The City in Which I Love You, explicating Lee's meanings.]
In the third book of The Dunciad, Alexander Pope has his Goddess of Dulness transport the King to her temple where she curtains him with “Vapours blue” and prepares him to listen to Oracles and talk with Gods:
Hence the Fool's Paradise, the Statesman's Scheme, The air-built Castle, and the golden Dream, The Maid's romantic wish, the Chemist's flame, And Poet's vision of eternal Fame.
Pope's wit here is about as gentle, about as subtle, as it gets. He likes these people, not despite their folly, but perhaps because of it. They are a people who prefer surface to interior. But, perhaps because of their earnestness, he offers a wry view, saving his more caustic wit for others. He makes an almost parallel image in his Essay of Man:
See the blind beggar dance, the cripple sing, The sot a hero, lunatic a king; The starving chemist in his golden views Supremely blest, the poet in his Muse.
For all its parallels, this quatrain is interesting for its contrasts. Its people are doers, not dreamers, they are people who have gone beyond the mere surface, beyond the...
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SOURCE: Kitchen, Judith. “Auditory Imagination: The Sense of Sound.” Georgia Review 45, no. 1 (spring 1991): 154-69.
[In the following excerpt, Kitchen assesses the aural achievement of The City in Which I Love You, highlighting its themes, rhythms, and language.]
Li-Young Lee's second book, The City in Which I Love You, is the 1990 Lamont Poetry Selection of The Academy of American Poets. This is a work of remarkable scope—musically as well as thematically—offering a sweeping perspective of history from the viewpoint of the émigré. He speaks for the disenfranchised, but from the particular voice of a late-twentieth-century Chinese-American trying to make sense of both his heritage and his inheritance. Positioning himself as father and son, Chinese and American, exile and citizen, Lee finds himself on the cusp of history; his duty, as he sees it, is to “tell my human / tale, tell it against / the current of that vaster, that / inhuman telling.”
The City in Which I Love You picks up where Lee's first book, Rose, left off. The opening poem, “Furious Versions,” is a long, seven-part account of his family's exile. Fueled with the sense that he is the only one who has lived to tell it, Lee recounts his father's fractured life and the loss of his brother. The effect is more than personal; it is admonitory—as if to warn us that we cannot face the...
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SOURCE: Baker, David. “Culture, Inclusion, Craft.” Poetry 158, no. 3 (June 1991): 158-75.
[In the following excerpt, Baker assesses the representation of the “foreign” or “other” in The City in Which I Love You.]
Li-Young Lee's second collection, The City in Which I Love You, is the 1990 Lamont Poetry Selection, and follows his award-winning Rose. Like Jane Kenyon [in Let Evening Come], Lee is a poet of the plain style, but where she holds her poems with a tight, spare rein, Lee writes with a loose, relaxed, open plainness. His work depends very greatly on the charms of character, as does the work of his presiding influence, Gerald Stern. But where Stern is our most powerfully ecstatic poet, whose skill seems to reside in sheer will and exuberant directness (“Today I am letting two old roses stand for everything I believe in”), Lee is more an ironist, a poet of doubleness and wariness (“After all, it was only our / life, our life and its forgetting”). Even in lines that directly pay homage to or borrow from Stern, Lee shows his occasional tendency toward flatness or dissipation:
I am letting this room and everything in it stand for my ideas about love and its difficulties. THIS ROOM AND EVERYTHING IN IT
I have to...
(The entire section is 813 words.)
SOURCE: Knowlton, Edgar C., Jr. Review of The City in Which I Love You, by Li-Young Lee. World Literature Today 65, no. 4 (autumn 1991): 771-72.
[In the following review, Knowlton highlights the autobiographical significance of The City in Which I Love You.]
The City in Which I Love You is the second book of poems by Li-Young Lee, an American poet of Chinese ancestry born in Indonesia, and is the 1990 Lamont Poetry Selection of the Academy of American Poets. An earlier volume, Rose, published in 1986, earned him New York University's Delmore Schwartz Memorial Poetry Award. The artistic cover, designed by Daphne Poulin, contains a reproduction of a map of Rome from an item in the Musée Condé, Château de Chantilly, and is tastefully placed. The back cover includes a portrait of the author by Paul Elledge.
On the last page of the book appears a biographical sketch of Lee. His poems sound autobiographical, but it is clear that it would be a mistake to interpret them as such in the strict sense. The sketch indicates that he was born in Jakarta, Indonesia, in 1957. However, on the first page of the poems we read, “That means I was born in Bandung, 1958.” The poems are dedicated “to Donna, again,” and the poet's wife is named Donna. There is no real harm in viewing the poetry as related to fact, though not necessarily prosaic fact. Lee has stated,...
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SOURCE: Waniek, Marilyn Nelson. “A Multitude of Dreams.” Kenyon Review 13, no. 4 (fall 1991): 214-26.
[In the following excerpt, Waniek considers the autobiographical, historical, and emotional implications ofThe City in Which I Love You.]
As I write, the troops of the Federation are crushing the Klingon horde, and here in the world every other tree wears a yellow ribbon. Even the Pope is not a pacifist. Hundreds, perhaps thousands, of graves twelve inches deep in the desert sand, and nowhere a truly reasonable and realistic argument against a necessary war. Auden was damn straight: poetry don't make nothin' happen. Yet, as he argues in “In Memory of W. B. Yeats,” poetry does more than make something happen: it is itself a way of happening; it is a voice. I'm inclined to believe that the way of poetry is the way of deep interior affirmation, as useless and as essential as prayer. Which also makes nothing happen.
The five books here under review, written by poets who belong to the dispossessed, make nothing happen. They are high rope bridges over poverty, diaspora, and cultural despair. …
Li-Young Lee's The City in Which I Love You, the Lamont selection for 1990, is more than interesting. One or two of its poems are, in my opinion, necessary. Elegant, delicate, and reticent, they achieve in graceful form the fulfillment of Lee's remarkable...
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SOURCE: McQuade, Molly. “A Pair of Poets Remember in Prose.” Chicago Tribune Books (23 April 1995): sec. 14, p. 6.
[In the following excerpt, McQuade describes the lyrical quality of The Winged Seed, underscoring its significance with respect to autobiography.]
We don't remember the past in an inverted pyramid style. Instead, memory is shaggy, grand, a mess. It tells us what to do, what to feel. We are at its beck.
So when an autobiography follows right angles too much, trying to corner or control the past, or when the memoirist is too much of a rationalist, memory suffers, losing its power and its life. Better that memory should take language in hand and insist that an autobiographer's story expand to fill the interstices of a new and less-standard form—a form invented as the writer works, at memory's behest.
That principle informs two new memoirs by poets—Melissa Green's Color Is the Suffering of Light and Li-Young Lee's The Winged Seed—and it's tempting to conjecture that poetry is responsible for the distinction of each. For though these book are prose, it's a prose unfamiliarly rich in tone, detail, structure and rhythm. Both Lee and Green write with an attentiveness to language that the author of an inverted pyramid memoir might not possess. And though they concern themselves with facts, the facts shape their books more than the...
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SOURCE: Engles, Tim. “Lee's ‘Persimmons’.” Explicator 54, no. 3 (spring 1996): 191-92.
[In the following essay, Engles explains the thematic significance of the words “persimmon” and “precision” in “Persimmons.”]
Li-Young Lee's “Persimmons” [in Rose] presents a second-generation Asian American's quiet analysis of his own experience between two cultures. The adult speaker returns, with gentle persistence throughout, to two words, “persimmon” and “precision,” and by poem's end, these two words resonate with representative significance for a son who has managed to recover specific values from his fading heritage.
The speaker begins with the painful memory of being “slapped” by his sixth-grade teacher, Mrs. Walker, and told to stand in the corner “for not knowing the difference / between persimmon and precision.” But the reader understands that the sixth grader's misperception has as much to do with pronunciation as denotation; the boy can handle the difference in meaning between these two words quite nimbly: “How to choose / persimmons. This is precision.” Lee then describes precisely how to choose, peel, and cut the perfect persimmon, then “eat / the meat of the fruit, / so sweet, / all of it, to the heart.”
This careful, respectful treatment of the fruit and its connection to “the heart” are echoed...
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SOURCE: Xiaojing, Zhou. “Inheritance and Invention in Li-Young Lee's Poetry.” MELUS 21, no. 1 (spring 1996): 113-32.
[In the following essay, Xiaojing examines the cross-cultural contexts and influences on Lee's poetry, extending his observations beyond the poet's ethnicity.]
Li-Young Lee's two prize-winning books of poetry, Rose (1986) and The City in Which I Love You (1990), contain processes of self-exploration and self-invention through memories of life in exile and experiences of disconnection, dispossession, and alienation.1 While providing him with a frame of reference to explore the self, autobiographical materials in his poems also serve as a point of departure for Lee to re-define and re-create the self as an immigrant in America and as a poet. At the same time, the process of Lee's construction and invention of identity is accompanied by his development of a set of poetic strategies through which the acquired knowledge and identity are forcefully articulated and expressed.
However, both Lee's identity re-creation and his poetic innovation are overlooked by critics who attempt to explain his poetry by emphasizing his Chinese ethnicity. In his complimentary foreword to Rose, Gerald Stern writes that what “characterizes Lee's poetry,” among other things, is “a pursuit of certain Chinese ideas, or Chinese memories. …” For Stern, Lee's...
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SOURCE: Slowik, Mary. “Beyond Lot's Wife: The Immigration Poems of Marilyn Chin, Garrett Hongo, Li-Young Lee, and David Mura.” MELUS 25, nos. 3-4 (fall-winter 2000): 221-42.
[In the following essay, Slowik compares and contrasts Lee's treatment of immigrant themes to those of Asian-American poets Garrett Hongo, Marilyn Chin, and David Mura, demonstrating the ways each “broadens and complicates the first person, meditative poetry of self-examination that dominates American writing today.”]
When God tells Lot to flee Soddam and Gomorrah, he cautions him not to look back. Lot's wife cannot resist the temptation and, as they rush from the great fire storm erupting behind them, she does look back and is immediately turned into a pillar of salt. The fear of looking back and yet the compulsion to look back at the country that one has left behind infuses much cross-cultural writing in the United States today. The experience of immigration is a central fact in the lives of Asian, Hispanic, Mid-Eastern, Slavic, Irish, and Italian families in America. Even when the immigration is several generations removed, cross-cultural writers searching for their roots must in one way or another grapple with the event itself.
For many families, immigration is a traumatic experience. Expelled out of their homelands, immigrants must suffer the treacherous journey to America and then survive in a...
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SOURCE: Review of Book of My Nights, by Li-Young Lee. Publishers Weekly 248, no. 28 (9 July 2001): 63.
[In the following review, the critic focuses on questions of origins raised by Book of My Nights.]
Passionate and profound, Lee's long-awaited third collection [Book of My Nights] charts the mid-life ontological crisis of a speaker who “can't tell what my father said about the sea … from the sea itself,” and finds himself unmoored without that strong male voice. Lee's father was a personal physician to Mao Zedong, who took the family to Jakarta (where Lee was born) in the '50s. As Indonesia began persecuting Chinese citizens and his father was imprisoned, Lee's family left the country, spent five years moving from place to place in Asia, and arrived in the U.S. in 1964. (These events are described in The Winged Seed. Lee's American Book Award-winning memoir of 1995.) Lee has ever been concerned with questions of origins, but in the 11 years since the publication of his last collection, memories of childhood answers furnished by father, mother and siblings now fail to assuage the poet's 3 a.m. doubts. Yet he does not trust himself to formulate answers on his own in these 35 nocturnes, and the father seems to be missing or dead. The poet's tightly wrought, extraordinarily careful and finally heart-wrenching responses finally boil down to one ultimate cry: “Where is his father?...
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Boruch, Marianne. “Comment/Memory Theater.” American Poetry Review, 16, no. 2 (March-April 1987): 22-23.
Boruch provides a favorable assessment of Rose.
Flamm, Matthew. “Facing up to the Deadly Ordinary.” New York Times Book Review (4 October 1987): 24.
Flamm lauds the sincerity and modesty of Lee's poetry in Rose.
Greenbaum, Jessica. “Memory's Citizen.” Nation 253, no. 11 (7 October 1991): 416-18.
Greenbaum surveys Lee's poetic development in Rose and The City in Which I Love You.
McGovern, Martin. “Recent Poetry from Independent Presses.” Kenyon Review 9, no. 4 (fall 1987): 131-37.
McGovern commends Lee for avoiding predictability and triteness in Rose, maintaining that “by flirting with sentimentality he transcends it.”
Additional coverage of Lee's life and career is contained in the following sources published by the Gale Group: Asian American Literature; Contemporary Authors, Vol. 153; Contemporary Poets, Ed. 7; Dictionary of Literary Biography, Vol. 165; Literature Resource Center; Poetry Criticism, Vol. 24; Poetry for Students, Vol. 11.
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