The past two months have seen a remarkable flourish of new poetry
publications which cry for attention and discussion in our lists:
Lynette Roberts, Collected Poems ed John Pikoulis, Seren
(The typography is horrible and the critical introduction musty to a degree,
but at last...and very reasonably priced)
Jennifer Moxley, Wrong Life, Equipage
Andrea Brady, Liberties, Barque/Potes & Poets Press
Keston Sutherland, Mincemeat Seesaw, Barque
J.H. Prynne, Pearls That Were, dist. Equipage
I can't remember when I last had the sense of being overwhelmed by
impossible riches in this way and the silence here may reflect a similar
sweet affliction elsewhere. But what I hear emergent in the four books of
new poetry is a lyric Elizabethan in its density and flexibility and
adventure, a decided turn.
Anyone want to expatiate a little, or at least join in my enthusiasm?
%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%
|