W. D. Snodgrass' The Fuhrer Bunker is a rare example of ambitious, on-going verse sculpture…. There are twenty monologues. They constitute, as Snodgrass calls them, "a cycle of poems in progress." I gather that he is not exactly certain of the final count—there are already nearly a dozen completed monologues not appearing in this collection. I admire Snodgrass's courage in presenting an incomplete work for public scrutiny. Since he is a poet of stature (Heart's Needle remains one of the handful of fine books of its decade) he will be widely reviewed, and there is a danger, I should think, that the reviews may discourage or dissuade him from further writing in this mode. The Fuhrer Bunker is gargantuan: few poets have the energy or the daring to attempt work on this scale…. In a real sense, Snodgrass seems to be working at what seems possible for him as an almost epic form. And despite the flaws in The Fuhrer Bunker it will be around for a long time to inspire writers who've come to realize the sad limitations of the locked-in, private, first person, obsessional poem.

The problems raised by the poems are these: There is a general sameness of voice. The monologues are usually long (the best—the Hermann Fegelein, for example—are short). The cadences of succeeding lines border on the monotonous, a monotony the frequent end-rhymes, well-turned rondeau (spoken by Magda Goebbels) don't quite modify…. I've concluded that the fault is primarily one of voice: Snodgrass' technical skills are as much in evidence as ever, but I rarely feel in these Bunker poems that the master's voice has a real chance to be heard. He seems to strive for the manner and presence of a stageable work; as a result the voice is too often in language and timing Shakespearean….

Yet, despite my quibbles over a sameness of tone and a stagey language, the sequence is complex in brilliant forms….

[I] see some of the enormous problems Snodgrass confronts, and I empathize with him, and greatly admire his achievement, despite my reservations. I am sure these poems (and the completed version when it appears) will be widely read, discussed, and imitated. They deserve much attention. In converting these slabs of marble into sculpture, Snodgrass may not be Rodin or Giacometti; but he is a St. Gaudens, and that is no mean achievement. (p. 14)