To this end, and true to its title, there is no shortage of indulgence in “Ecstasy.” The characters in these poems party hard; there is plenty of sex and drinking and drugs. They smoke Sobranies and down bottles of Chablis at Café Charlot in Paris. They are seasoned regulars of New York nightlife, bouncing from one downtown fixture to the next. One poem is titled “Xanax”; another is called “Poppers.” There’s a full section with poems dedicated to each of the seven deadly sins.
Dimitrov — who leans toward single stanzas broken into short lines and succinct, staccato sentences — doesn’t hesitate to air a few grievances along the way. In “Monday,” he writes: “Doesn’t it bother you sometimes/what living is, what the day has turned into?/So many screens and meetings/and things to be late for.” But overall, “Ecstasy” reads more like celebration than critique, a reminder to enjoy the pleasures of the world wherever possible and not take ourselves, or life, too seriously.
As in “Love and Other Poems,” his previous collection, Dimitrov’s man-about-town quality is on full display here, though the tone has shifted somewhat. The poems remain candid and conversational, but at times they also feel more disillusioned and resigned. “Everything is a lie/but everything is still beautiful,” he writes in “Wednesday,” which ends: “I just love this running around/even if I’m not free.”
But Dimitrov still comes across as the romantic he was in his earlier work, too, with a curiosity and thirst for connection and life’s possibilities. In “Tuesday” — an endearingly earnest meditation on love and selfhood “meant to be read/at the bar on a Tuesday/when you’re dehydrated/and not feeling so great” — he writes:
I want to know you
like a dog touches the wind
with its tongue. I want to know
why time moves impossibly slow
when pain rises, and what makes it
speed up like two people
looking for each other
at the end of the night.
When was the last time someone
looked at you like a bridge
held by cold air?
The speaker admits that he imagined his life (and perhaps a past relationship) would have turned out differently, but the poem ultimately ends with an emphasis on all that is still possible: “You can walk out/tonight and feel totally new./All you need is the right pair of boots.”
“Ecstasy” is a rollicking paean to pleasure, an ode to realness and resilience. These poems are raw and honest and deeply personal, and vibrate with the intimacy and electricity typically reserved for late-night conversations between old friends or new lovers after the third round. Hilarious in places and heartbreaking in others, they emerge from a place of inner turmoil and inner knowing, and do not apologize for anything.