Blue Fifth Reviews – (February 2018 / #11)
Any conscientious critic who has ever had to review a new volume of poetry in a limited space knows that the only fair thing to do would be to give a series of quotations without comment but, if he did so, his editors would complain that he was not earning his money.
–W. H. Auden, “Reading”
The editors will select collections of poetry, flash, and short fiction to present to our readers. We will be heeding Auden’s advice, listing, without comment, key passages that we consider representative of the featured works. Our hope is that readers will also be moved, and will seek out the books.
***
February 2018
Bill Yarrow, ed.
Travel Notes from the River Styx by Susanna Lang
Terrapin Books, 2017
51 poems, 95 pages
1 The sound has been turned off—
the movie’s on for ambience like the Cuban band
that plays its trademark syncopation, while in the subtitles
a voice calls Enrique, Enrique, but of course
Enrique is advancing toward the water cannon,
half a brick in his hand. And the cops have to be fat,
buttoned too tightly into their uniforms; they have to hold guns,
and it is preordained that they will shoot.
(from “Dinner and a Movie at the Cuban Restaurant”)
2. Everything loosens its grip, the flag
slips down the pole, the girl’s hair
from its clip, and the leaves, of course,
let go to write their elaborate script
in the wind.
(from “Yes, Everything”)
3. Bring me the arguments about who knows what
and the ones where everyone knows; bring
your intimacy with rivers, your trumpet, honey
mixed with liquid fire; bring your arm upraised
to grasp justice like a brass ring while music turns
the carousel. Bring me chords that open a box of silence
(from “Improvisation”)
4. And now a previously unknown species of tailorbird
has been discovered in a suburban tree, vibrating
with its own song, new cap on its head, new name
in the books
(from “Lexicon”)
5. So many ways to fall—
(from “The Long Way Back”)
~
Vessel by Parneshia Jones
Milkweed Editions, 2015
36 poems, 104 pages
1. Mom is always right
Only about stuff she knows
(from “Haikus for a Younger Self: A Suite”)
2. Cooking dinner for one,
she prays over the steam
stirring a pot of luck gone bad
black-eyed peas, rice religiously
simmering
(from “Blink”)
3. I knew the one they all wanted,
the sweet and tender father
they wished for; you were a sacred
carving in my kinfolk collection.
They knew someone else.
Your wife knew the tyrant
striking your life lines across her face—
fingers roped around her throat
the noose of your marriage
loosens, setting her free.
She offers nothing in your death,
the badge of a broken wife
who stopped loving you long before
your last breath.
(from “Bitter Smell of Ashes”)
4. Daughters of dust and duende
feast on oysters in gravy, blue crabs and grits.
They leave a trail of tipped hats, low-country men
and gypsies who read the fortunes of the world
off their switching legs of revival
(from “Shutter”)
5. We are real and breathing
We are hungry and rewriting dictionaries
We are poets and presidents
We have made it known that his name,
our names, every black letter birthed
from the blinking cursor is permanent
and correct.
(from “Auto-Correcting History”)
~
Teaching a Man to Unstick His Tail by Ralph Hamilton
Sibling Rivalry Press, 2015
61 poems, 120 pages
1. Possession is
nothing. But absence has breath,
has bones, a hue, your scent in
silence still moist on the stairs.
(from “Pentimento”)
2. There is a Gumby
in us all who knows
with all his bendy
boneless brain that
play with Pokey
and Pokey’s play
with him oblige
them, willy-nilly,
to bow and torque
and tilt
(from “Pals”)
3. You are a chicken and
I am a chicken. Neither
of us knew which one came
first, but together we
made a comely farmyard
couple. Oh how we cackled
and ooh did we cluck—
(from “Bird Life”)
4. This humid afternoon
all earth’s humors
exhume themselves in
tight tin soldier
drill. The air is
oil, humus,
glue, the trees gangrene,
my breathing thick as
rheum:
(from “Weight”)
5. How could I tell a carrot from
a cat if I had no words? Know
what to grate, which to pet?
(from “What You Name”)
***
This entry was posted in Blue Fifth Reviews. Bookmark the permalink.
February 2018
Bill Yarrow, ed.
Travel Notes from the River Styx by Susanna Lang
Terrapin Books, 2017
51 poems, 95 pages
1 The sound has been turned off—
the movie’s on for ambience like the Cuban band
that plays its trademark syncopation, while in the subtitles
a voice calls Enrique, Enrique, but of course
Enrique is advancing toward the water cannon,
half a brick in his hand. And the cops have to be fat,
buttoned too tightly into their uniforms; they have to hold guns,
and it is preordained that they will shoot.
(from “Dinner and a Movie at the Cuban Restaurant”)
2. Everything loosens its grip, the flag
slips down the pole, the girl’s hair
from its clip, and the leaves, of course,
let go to write their elaborate script
in the wind.
(from “Yes, Everything”)
3. Bring me the arguments about who knows what
and the ones where everyone knows; bring
your intimacy with rivers, your trumpet, honey
mixed with liquid fire; bring your arm upraised
to grasp justice like a brass ring while music turns
the carousel. Bring me chords that open a box of silence
(from “Improvisation”)
4. And now a previously unknown species of tailorbird
has been discovered in a suburban tree, vibrating
with its own song, new cap on its head, new name
in the books
(from “Lexicon”)
5. So many ways to fall—
(from “The Long Way Back”)
~
Vessel by Parneshia Jones
Milkweed Editions, 2015
36 poems, 104 pages
1. Mom is always right
Only about stuff she knows
(from “Haikus for a Younger Self: A Suite”)
2. Cooking dinner for one,
she prays over the steam
stirring a pot of luck gone bad
black-eyed peas, rice religiously
simmering
(from “Blink”)
3. I knew the one they all wanted,
the sweet and tender father
they wished for; you were a sacred
carving in my kinfolk collection.
They knew someone else.
Your wife knew the tyrant
striking your life lines across her face—
fingers roped around her throat
the noose of your marriage
loosens, setting her free.
She offers nothing in your death,
the badge of a broken wife
who stopped loving you long before
your last breath.
(from “Bitter Smell of Ashes”)
4. Daughters of dust and duende
feast on oysters in gravy, blue crabs and grits.
They leave a trail of tipped hats, low-country men
and gypsies who read the fortunes of the world
off their switching legs of revival
(from “Shutter”)
5. We are real and breathing
We are hungry and rewriting dictionaries
We are poets and presidents
We have made it known that his name,
our names, every black letter birthed
from the blinking cursor is permanent
and correct.
(from “Auto-Correcting History”)
~
Teaching a Man to Unstick His Tail by Ralph Hamilton
Sibling Rivalry Press, 2015
61 poems, 120 pages
1. Possession is
nothing. But absence has breath,
has bones, a hue, your scent in
silence still moist on the stairs.
(from “Pentimento”)
2. There is a Gumby
in us all who knows
with all his bendy
boneless brain that
play with Pokey
and Pokey’s play
with him oblige
them, willy-nilly,
to bow and torque
and tilt
(from “Pals”)
3. You are a chicken and
I am a chicken. Neither
of us knew which one came
first, but together we
made a comely farmyard
couple. Oh how we cackled
and ooh did we cluck—
(from “Bird Life”)
4. This humid afternoon
all earth’s humors
exhume themselves in
tight tin soldier
drill. The air is
oil, humus,
glue, the trees gangrene,
my breathing thick as
rheum:
(from “Weight”)
5. How could I tell a carrot from
a cat if I had no words? Know
what to grate, which to pet?
(from “What You Name”)
***
This entry was posted in Blue Fifth Reviews. Bookmark the permalink.
Travel Notes from the River Styx by Susanna Lang
Terrapin Books, 2017
51 poems, 95 pages
1 The sound has been turned off—
the movie’s on for ambience like the Cuban band
that plays its trademark syncopation, while in the subtitles
a voice calls Enrique, Enrique, but of course
Enrique is advancing toward the water cannon,
half a brick in his hand. And the cops have to be fat,
buttoned too tightly into their uniforms; they have to hold guns,
and it is preordained that they will shoot.
(from “Dinner and a Movie at the Cuban Restaurant”)
2. Everything loosens its grip, the flag
slips down the pole, the girl’s hair
from its clip, and the leaves, of course,
let go to write their elaborate script
in the wind.
(from “Yes, Everything”)
3. Bring me the arguments about who knows what
and the ones where everyone knows; bring
your intimacy with rivers, your trumpet, honey
mixed with liquid fire; bring your arm upraised
to grasp justice like a brass ring while music turns
the carousel. Bring me chords that open a box of silence
(from “Improvisation”)
4. And now a previously unknown species of tailorbird
has been discovered in a suburban tree, vibrating
with its own song, new cap on its head, new name
in the books
(from “Lexicon”)
5. So many ways to fall—
(from “The Long Way Back”)
~
Vessel by Parneshia Jones
Milkweed Editions, 2015
36 poems, 104 pages
1. Mom is always right
Only about stuff she knows
(from “Haikus for a Younger Self: A Suite”)
2. Cooking dinner for one,
she prays over the steam
stirring a pot of luck gone bad
black-eyed peas, rice religiously
simmering
(from “Blink”)
3. I knew the one they all wanted,
the sweet and tender father
they wished for; you were a sacred
carving in my kinfolk collection.
They knew someone else.
Your wife knew the tyrant
striking your life lines across her face—
fingers roped around her throat
the noose of your marriage
loosens, setting her free.
She offers nothing in your death,
the badge of a broken wife
who stopped loving you long before
your last breath.
(from “Bitter Smell of Ashes”)
4. Daughters of dust and duende
feast on oysters in gravy, blue crabs and grits.
They leave a trail of tipped hats, low-country men
and gypsies who read the fortunes of the world
off their switching legs of revival
(from “Shutter”)
5. We are real and breathing
We are hungry and rewriting dictionaries
We are poets and presidents
We have made it known that his name,
our names, every black letter birthed
from the blinking cursor is permanent
and correct.
(from “Auto-Correcting History”)
~
Teaching a Man to Unstick His Tail by Ralph Hamilton
Sibling Rivalry Press, 2015
61 poems, 120 pages
1. Possession is
nothing. But absence has breath,
has bones, a hue, your scent in
silence still moist on the stairs.
(from “Pentimento”)
2. There is a Gumby
in us all who knows
with all his bendy
boneless brain that
play with Pokey
and Pokey’s play
with him oblige
them, willy-nilly,
to bow and torque
and tilt
(from “Pals”)
3. You are a chicken and
I am a chicken. Neither
of us knew which one came
first, but together we
made a comely farmyard
couple. Oh how we cackled
and ooh did we cluck—
(from “Bird Life”)
4. This humid afternoon
all earth’s humors
exhume themselves in
tight tin soldier
drill. The air is
oil, humus,
glue, the trees gangrene,
my breathing thick as
rheum:
(from “Weight”)
5. How could I tell a carrot from
a cat if I had no words? Know
what to grate, which to pet?
(from “What You Name”)
***
