Showing posts from September, 2010

Matthew Savoca - "I would like to marry Matthew, but after reading this lovely work, it suddenly seems like a bad idea"

Matthew Savoca, long love poem with descriptive title, The Scrambler, 2010.

“Matthew Savoca’s poetry is like a slow-spinning ceiling fan. It’s like the feeling of being under the ceiling fan. It’s like the feeling of looking up at the ceiling fan. It’s like the feeling of falling half-asleep beneath it. And this book is the calm, sunny room that you’re in.
I could think of a million other tiny small things to say (probably all of them about things like washing dishes) that make me think of Matthew’s poetry and how it’s one of the best things that I know about that exists. Everything seems a little lighter and easier and sunnier if I think about them after thinking about Matthew’s poetry.
You should probably be in love with Matthew Savoca. He wrote this book for you.” – Colin Bassett

“long love poem with descriptive title has this tender sensibility about domestic life, but it’s still very dour and a little sad. It has this way of displaying the repetitive quality of relationships that is …

Katrina Palmer - Teenage Hooker Became a Žižek Machine

Katrina Palmer, The Dark Object, Book Works 2010.

“Wallace Stevens thought that Heidegger was Swiss, mistaking Fribourg for Frieburg, didn’t read anything by him and knew him as a myth rather than as a person. He thought philosophy was mythical, by which he meant something uncomplimentary when he said it, though he was a poet like Holderlin who thought ‘Poetically man dwells on this earth,’ and who in his ‘Final Soliloquy of the Interior Paramour’ wrote that, ‘… out of the central mind,/ We make a dwelling in the evening air,/ In which being there together is enough.’
I like the idea of an imagined doppleganger-Heidegger so references to Heidegger are to this Swiss version rather than the German Nazi-appointed rector of Frieburg University. Stevens is the great poet of the poetic dwelling time on earth, poised at a pitch between birth and death, as good a poet as Holderlin, and asking the same question as the German: what are times for in times of poverty? As he approached dying he wr…

Ursule Molinaro - I've been sleeping with my great-grandmother's left thigh bone under my pillow since my seventeenth birthday

Ursule Molinaro, Positions with White Roses, McPherson, 1989.

"After a self-imposed 12-year exile in Europe, a young woman finally returns home to visit her twin sister and parents. It is the holidays, but this homecoming goes awry from the start. For years the elderly parents have hardly spoken to each other, and the sister, Laura, who always before has come home at this time of year, is inexplicably absent. And yet, as parents and the visiting daughter assume their positions around the Christmas dinner table and its centerpiece of white roses, Laura's absence is transformed into a palpably overwhelming presence. Thus, the stage is set for an explosive confrontation as the family's story unfolds in what Marianne Hauser has called "a superb achievement, highly readable, profound and unrivaled."

"A world of conflicting emotions is packed into the book - a slim novel as novels go... Yet as we reach the end, we are enriched and dazzled, as if we had been whisked…

Ariana Reines - To shove the brains into the guts, to shove the material fact of bodies into the nothingness they often seem to be disgorging

Ariana Reines, The Cow, Fence, 2006.

"To call Ariana Reines' poetry scatological doesn't even scratch the surface. "I COULD BE A DIAPER FOR THE DAY'S RESIDUALS," she writes, and, "She clasped the event to her and proceeded. Fucked her steaming/ eyehole and ended it." The Cow is a body in the way that texts are bodied—"Are you so intelligent your body doesn't have you in it."—but not in the way that allows the text to become desensitized, depersonalized, sterilized. Instead this text is filthy and fertilized, filling and emptying, filling and emptying, atrocious and politic with meaning. The Cow is a mother, a lover, and a murdered lump of meat, rendered in the strongest of languages. "I cannot count the altering that happens in the very large rooms that are the guts of her." - Dennis Cooper

"The Cow, Reines's first book, opens lyrically: 'The day is a fume. At starboard, a white kirtle which is the moon. The day h…