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Commuting: Have gone to Ithaca. -Frank Quitely.
38 pages, Paperback
First published March 1, 2012
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Displaying 1 - 2 of 2 reviews
June 15, 2016
Well. This was udderly delightful, positively dripping.
These poems pry up the boards on the nature of impression -- the unapproachable permanence of it, & its tendency toward indiscretion. There's no intervening on the behalf of the impressed upon, either.
The question of F or Q, to fork or to spoon, is never resolved and remains post-carious -- a rotted tooth, part gouge and part house -- a rigor of tiny lives, microbial and being lived along side root etc. As when ". . . Robert Frost saw / A forked spoon in the road" (From #8) -- do these poems want to lead, stab, or pool? Can they do all three (as in, it was the word trail with the saber in the pool. Pink water, so sorry etc)?
"F"(rank) is double pronged, dual hinged, toothy. "Q'(uitely)'s hinge turns inward, spoons & spoon feeds, attempts to gather in, to circumscribe.
When the "whiching hour" (from 9) appears, it's no surprise -- language has already gotten witchy -- the pointings at & the making impressions on have been brewing. This little book manages to pull out hella dark magic with regard to naming & the old this/that -- dozens of frog legs, soiled britches, baby nails & toes.
I still don't know what to do about the problem of facsimile or the dormant malignancy of the frame & the framed, in the settings down and calling outs. But, I am BOLDer for now, about the whole thing.
Having finished this collection, I feel a great deal smarter than I did this morning. These poems did the Poem Job and made me feel as though the bones of each, each "margarine of error" (from 11) were dug up by me tomorrow -- the sense of having known before knowing, a near-writing reading experience. Lovely.
These poems pry up the boards on the nature of impression -- the unapproachable permanence of it, & its tendency toward indiscretion. There's no intervening on the behalf of the impressed upon, either.
The question of F or Q, to fork or to spoon, is never resolved and remains post-carious -- a rotted tooth, part gouge and part house -- a rigor of tiny lives, microbial and being lived along side root etc. As when ". . . Robert Frost saw / A forked spoon in the road" (From #8) -- do these poems want to lead, stab, or pool? Can they do all three (as in, it was the word trail with the saber in the pool. Pink water, so sorry etc)?
"F"(rank) is double pronged, dual hinged, toothy. "Q'(uitely)'s hinge turns inward, spoons & spoon feeds, attempts to gather in, to circumscribe.
When the "whiching hour" (from 9) appears, it's no surprise -- language has already gotten witchy -- the pointings at & the making impressions on have been brewing. This little book manages to pull out hella dark magic with regard to naming & the old this/that -- dozens of frog legs, soiled britches, baby nails & toes.
I still don't know what to do about the problem of facsimile or the dormant malignancy of the frame & the framed, in the settings down and calling outs. But, I am BOLDer for now, about the whole thing.
Having finished this collection, I feel a great deal smarter than I did this morning. These poems did the Poem Job and made me feel as though the bones of each, each "margarine of error" (from 11) were dug up by me tomorrow -- the sense of having known before knowing, a near-writing reading experience. Lovely.
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May 28, 2012Biased, can't quite rate.
Displaying 1 - 2 of 2 reviews