Carla Harryman…and Catherine Meng…each offer an expansive poetics, suggesting that the inherited conventions of poetry afford new possibilities when presented with the documentary tasks inherent in many non-literary types of prose writing.
Sheffield’s language is mined from observation and reflection. His imagination is grounded in flora and fauna and in the words we use to make sense of ourselves.
Lucy Ives does not tell us how to find meaning in our lives, but she demonstrates its constant loss and rediscovery in her new poetry and essay collection, Orange Roses.
It turns out that ordinary mortality is the only limit to this openness, and here, we recognize that Lauterbach, for all her intellectual flights, is a poet among the people, concerned with universals. In her work, we recognize ourselves.
The beauty of this collection, formally and thematically, is the brio Wilkinson brings to the task of making sense out of and though form.
Hillman has a penchant for including everything: she loves the sibilance and buzz of both creature and machine.
Clear enough to see you christen or condemn another
on the side of a beige building, I take the boat out
of the body that returns itself to me
There are those for whom figures
on balconies exist, if only as possibilities.
Something is speaking
in the language of
orange areoles
in the manner of
black plaques and
silvery-gritted miniature
British soldiers
The most beautiful clothes: iridescent black over Snarl Call. I wore the soft Sparrow
to the store, I borrowed the Crow to bag food;
the Chickadee to the masquerade; the Vulture to the show,