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Local Hope
In settings that wander from Montana to Louisiana, from the ragged fairways of abandoned golf courses to the steely rooms of radiology, the poems in LOCAL HOPE melancholily embrace the past, record the ecstasies and dislocations of the commonplace, and stare back with a wide-eyed curiosity at our cultural oddities.
- GenresPoetry
75 pages, Paperback
First published July 20, 2010
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Displaying 1 of 1 review
December 14, 2021
I answer his question why a hundred times a day,
why for instance do we have to eat and why
in sleep we dream some things we'll never do.
I no longer count my white inventions lies.
He's holding still, trying even not to blink.
How much he respects us all, our instructions,
technologies, my half-cooked approximations
about how this world works. How fast it leaves
us all behind with few ideas to offer in return.
He's given his blood without a wince and
now the technicians withdraw, the terrible
whirring begins, the ticks and clicks which trace
this other truth about our lives. He slides forward,
red lasers mark his face, and I'm holding fast,
my hand locked around his ankle, my fingers crossed.
from "The CAT Scan"
There's some phenomenal poetry in Jack Heflin's collection Local Hope, but there are also instances of obscurity and meandering I did not enjoy wading through. Every few poems, Heflin strikes gold and, when he does, his language and humor and style impress. The problem is the inconsistency, especially Heflin's ambiguous wonderings about art. Seldom are these poems clear or even focused, indolently wandering line to line. I am aware that poetry is about the journey--the scenery passing the window of our traveling car--and not the destination. But more than a handful of poems in this collection described nothing mesmerizing as I wandered through.
Louisiana Poetry Reviews
Looking into the Heart of Light <--------> How the Dead Bury the Dead
why for instance do we have to eat and why
in sleep we dream some things we'll never do.
I no longer count my white inventions lies.
He's holding still, trying even not to blink.
How much he respects us all, our instructions,
technologies, my half-cooked approximations
about how this world works. How fast it leaves
us all behind with few ideas to offer in return.
He's given his blood without a wince and
now the technicians withdraw, the terrible
whirring begins, the ticks and clicks which trace
this other truth about our lives. He slides forward,
red lasers mark his face, and I'm holding fast,
my hand locked around his ankle, my fingers crossed.
from "The CAT Scan"
There's some phenomenal poetry in Jack Heflin's collection Local Hope, but there are also instances of obscurity and meandering I did not enjoy wading through. Every few poems, Heflin strikes gold and, when he does, his language and humor and style impress. The problem is the inconsistency, especially Heflin's ambiguous wonderings about art. Seldom are these poems clear or even focused, indolently wandering line to line. I am aware that poetry is about the journey--the scenery passing the window of our traveling car--and not the destination. But more than a handful of poems in this collection described nothing mesmerizing as I wandered through.
Louisiana Poetry Reviews
Looking into the Heart of Light <--------> How the Dead Bury the Dead
Displaying 1 of 1 review