This is a book of poems about being a poet. Hilda Raz writes about encounters of everyday life, conversations, and underlying philosophical thoughts, often self-referential about the fact that she is sitting and writing, or thinking about writing.
“I dream about a fluent woman trapped in a flood of language, a living flux her body interrupts.”
This is poetry for poets, as most poetry tends to be. I didn’t enjoy the overall voice very much. I’ve always been taught that poetry has to be agonizingly precise, each and every word questioned and chosen for a specific reason. I find that writing poetry in this way can make it turn out somewhat cryptic. Personally, what I want out of poetry is not a sense that I have solved a puzzle but a feeling of inherent human understanding, and a broadening release. There were many isolated lines in this collection that gave me that feeling (referring to the horizon as a bowl, just gorgeous. Referring to a young woman as “hurt like the rest of us but for the first time,” too true), but no full poem as a complete work was able to do that for me. I enjoyed it more or less, but it often felt too wordy and lost my attention.