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Carregando... Our Andromedade Brenda Shaughnessy
Top Five Books of 2013 (960) Carregando...
Registre-se no LibraryThing tpara descobrir se gostará deste livro. Ainda não há conversas na Discussão sobre este livro. The poems in Our Andromeda range from bizarre to tender. Most of the time I figure Shaughnessy is up to something and I can't always quite figure out what, which I like. I really enjoyed her embodied expression of motherhood, its joys, challenges, and fears, and her series on the Tarot cards produced some unexpected imagery. A poem’s job is to be beautiful. A poem’s job is not just to teach, but to make a reader eager to show up for class every day. A poem’s truth should be at once stunningly obvious and blindingly original. A poem should make us happy to slow down and savor in a world of fast-food writing. Reading a poem should only be work in the sense that some people are lucky enough to have jobs they love so much they’d do them for free. Reading a poem should be the kind of workout that makes you feel shaky but strong afterward, as triumphant as if you’d discovered new muscles in your own body. I looked for Our Andromeda at the library because I stumbled across one poem from it, fell in love, and needed to see if this was the real thing or just a one-night stand. Definitely the real thing. Liking poems or poets doesn’t imply a moral imperative to adore every poem in the world, or even every poem by a poet you love. Some of the poems in this collection don’t work for me. “Card 0: The Fool,” for instance – inspired by the Tarot card. It seemed too flippant, bawdy and grotesque for the sake of it. Other poems in the Tarot series aren’t bad, but seem like missed opportunities, such as “Card 20: Judgment,” which I present here in its entirety: What did the stand of pines say to the herd of elephants wearing swimsuits and carrying large suitcases? “Nice trunks!” Cute, but – why? Why this response to this card? (If you’re not familiar with it, an angel blows a horn; below him, human figures rise from their graves, naked, arms raised in adoration.) Why this flippancy in the face of the end of excuse-making and the beginning of eternity? So there are these few unsatisfying ventures. And then there’s the whole rest of the book, which hits it out of the park when it comes to the criterion listed above. Here’s the end of “Vanity”: Like murders in books, but with reverse precision, how anyone becomes herself is a mystery. A miracle. A myth. And here’s a particularly wonderful passage from “My Water Children”: Often, as a child, when I did something wrong and got away with it, I thought a ghost or spirit or a kind of assistant god (not the Real God, who was too busy for the souls of children and it turns out that is true) would bleed through to me from the skin of the other world, cut by my misdeed or sin, and catch me. And, of course, there’s the poem I went in search of in the first place, “I Wish I Had More Sisters.” I’d like to include the whole thing, but I might break Goodreads. So here’s just a bunch of it, including the beginning and the very end: I wish I had more sisters, enough to fight with and still have plenty more to confess to, embellishing the fight so that I look like I’m right and then turn all my sisters, one by one, against my sister. One sister will be so bad the rest of us will have a purpose in bringing her back to where it’s good (with us) and we’ll feel useful, and she will feel loved. Then another sister will have a tragedy, and again, we will unite in our grief, judging her much less than we did the bad sister. ... My sisters will seem like a bunch of alternate me, all the ways I could have gone. I could see how things pan out without having to do the things myself. ... There would be both more and less of me to have to bear. None of us would be forced to be stronger than we could be. Each of us could be all of us. The pretty one. The smart one. The bitter one. The unaccountably-happy- for-no-reason one. I could be, for example, the hopeless one, and the next day my sister would take my place, and I would hold her up until my arms gave way and another sister would relieve me. Which brings me to the last job poetry should perform: Reading a poem should leave even a non-writer feeling that she could write a poem; that she should write a poem; that poetry is not the domain of the precious; that life and poetry are really just thirst and water. I don't read a lot of poetry, and not contemporary poetry at all. Perhaps I had my fill at workshops in my MFA program. I find so much of contemporary poetry to be just poems about how hard it is to make a poem. But these poems are About Things -- not just Abstract Things like "Love" or "Justice" or "Loss" (though they are about them too), but about Things That Happened. There is a SF-nal quality to them that I liked as well. Has happily put me on a poetry kick.
In bold and moving contrast, Shaughnessy’s emotionally charged and gorgeously composed third volume of poems, “Our Andromeda,” moves me line by line and poem by poem so that by the book’s final, monumental title poem, I am top-of-the-head-blown-off undone. In “Our Andromeda” Shaughnessy has brought to bear her inevitable syntactic and sonic hula-hooping, her playful and ironic uses of form, her vivid mind on poems that absolutely matter. Prêmios
Fiction.
Poetry.
HTML: "A heady, infectious celebration."??The New Yorker "Shaughnessy's voice is smart, sexy, self-aware, hip . . . consistently wry, and ever savvy."??Harvard Review Brenda Shaughnessy's heartrending third collection explores dark subjects??trauma, childbirth, loss of faith??and stark questions: What is the use of pain and grief? Is there another dimension in which our suffering might be transformed? Can we change ourselves? Yearning for new gods, new worlds, and new rules, she imagines a parallel existence in the galaxy of Andromeda. From "Our Andromeda": Cal, faster than the lightest light, I can feel it living in us like we Oh, maybe, Cal, we are home, doesn't it seem we belong? my child, and I your mother Brenda Shaughnessy was born in Okinawa, Japan and grew up in Southern California. She is the author of Human Dark with Sugar (Copper Canyon Press, 2008), winner of the James Laughlin Award and finalist for the National Book Critics Circle Award, and Interior with Sudden Joy (FSG, 1999). Shaughnessy??s poems have appeared in Best American Poetry, Harper's, The Nation, The Rumpus, The New Yorker, and The Paris Review. She is an Assistant Professor of English at Rutgers University, Newark, and lives in Brooklyn with her husband, son and Não foram encontradas descrições de bibliotecas. |
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Google Books — Carregando... GênerosClassificação decimal de Dewey (CDD)811.54Literature English (North America) American poetry 20th Century 1945-1999Classificação da Biblioteca do Congresso dos E.U.A. (LCC)AvaliaçãoMédia:
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