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The sequence of Rhone Fancher’s poetry is particularly inventive, offering a layered resonance that readers may find both empathetic and revealing. While its earlier stanzas carefully construct the scene, it is the ending that delivers the greatest impact — a twist shaped by irony, by the disparity of experience, and by an emotional and intellectual complexity that lingers long after the last line.
The author of Let The Fish Fly talks about her new novel and its themes, the power of following the inner voice, how writing this novel changed her, her use of The Upanishads and other ancient texts, the masks women wear, Kali moments, the sacred amidst the everyday, and lots more.
This is a delightful collection – often thought provoking, sometimes poignant and always engaging. Keating understands the times in which we live. As she says in her introduction, it is: ‘a broken world with personal and collective emotions, pain of war and human travail that can bring us to our knees’. But gloom and desperation aren’t options for this fine lyric poet.
The whole book has a feel of allegory, with the forest taking on an almost animistic feel – you get the sense of this non-human life crackling around Anna – but we also are invested in Anna’s survival. This is partly because Anna’s trajectory is driven forward by her growing survival instinct as she navigates night-time cold, constant hunger, environmental dangers, and the ever-present threat of the people she encounters – some helpful and some less so.
I marveled at how Pacht is a poet in constant absorption. From a Hammacher Schlemmer catalog to lines from fellow poets to topics like electrical currents and plastic surgery pulled from the news, the poet is a deliberate sponge whose words in the end are selected across a world of inspiration.
Tripier’s exacting prose captures the story of a woman locked in and looking back on life, but it also holds moments of sheer joy recognizable by any reader who’s creating or reliving memory. May those moments extend beyond the walls of a house into a fully-lived life. Level the rubble, indeed.
One of the opening epigraphs by Brenda Eldridge likens music to ekphrastic poetry, but the poetry in this book is often ekphrasis based on music, taking its cue from the experience of listening. The result is poetry that is descriptive, rhythmic and often catchy in the way that popular music can be.
John Biscello’s astonishing work, The Last Furies, is a vaudeville routine wrapped around a radio drama, tucked into a theater piece, bound by a screenplay, drawn into a rich and sprawling novel. Imagine a character in a play. What if they had an inner life outside of the script and the production itself?
When he says “Movies are what we have in the United States of America / to save of from some poverty of Spirit,” (99) he speaks for humankind. That he does so in words that are passionate, elegant, and honest is his readers’ good fortune. Roy Bentley is one of the best poets writing in English, and The Wreck of Your Life on the Evening News is his best book to date.
Here, as elsewhere in this fine collection, Rammelkamp’s poetical plain style doesn’t attempt to call attention to its cleverness, but mirrors Coolidge’s own reserved eloquence. Or as Abraham Lincoln once ironically opined: if you keep your mouth shut, people will think you’re a fool. If you open it, they’ll know for sure.