Posts Tagged: Virginia Konchan

Book of Dog

“Book of Dog” by Cleopatra Mathis

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The domesticated dog, evolved 15,000 years ago from gray wolves, is not a reliquary of slavish dependence in Book of Dog, Cleopatra Mathis’ seventh collection, nor is it a token of the bourgeois middle-class’s presumed benignity. It is as necessary to world ecology as the mice, ants, and moths that populate the collection, and possessed of a “plain language” that challenges not only the echo chamber of rhetoric, but the very conceit (the restaging of the spatio-temporal order) of the lyric poem.

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The Children

“The Children” by Paula Bohince

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The plosive thrills and quietly mournful tenor of the finely-wrought poems Paula Bohince’s The Children (her second full-length collection) reward enormously upon first encounter, and only more so upon subsequent reads. This collection reminds the reader that lyric’s static and sequential structures in fact require the reader to re-read, if she wishes becomes more deeply acquainted with a lyric subject (the ostensible aim of lyric poetry).

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I Am Your Slave

I Am Your Slave Now Do What I Say by Anthony Madrid

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If this collection didn’t have one again questioning the origin and provenance of poetry (other than the intellect or empirical self), the poems would be getting short shrift. They are genuine oddities, as if hurled at the reader from the future or the distant past, dragging long skirts (MADRID is a gender-bender) of feigned contrition as if parodying both reverence and apostasy.

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the-grief-performance

The Grief Performance, by Emily Kendal Frey

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Emily Kendal Frey’s compact, laconic poems from her first collection, The Grief Performance, outwit, outlast, and, eponymously, outperform not only death, but failure, ennui, and despair. How, you ask? For starters, the speaker of The Grief Performance treats poems as if they were contingent to experience (perhaps, because they are).

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The Range of Your Amazing Nothing

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Lina ramona Vitkauskas asks, and her collection stands as an intrepid answer, the question as to why haute couture, avant-garde and post avant-garde cinema, Derrida, and marine life should be at odds, offering her reader startling juxtapositions vis a vis an unmistakable voice that sounds out as often as it retracts in the act of listening.

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