John Gallaher’s In a Landscape is only 120 pages, but it's the biggest book of poems I’ve ever read. In sprawling but meticulous lines, Gallaher constructs a Socratic interrogation to end all interrogations, to humanize this problem with the abstract nouns that we all struggle with in our lives: how to love without plagiarizing, how to hate without being dishonest, how to work without being co-opted... how to fake all of the above just enough in order to believe in them.
Like a serious medieval monk being deeply unserious in the margins, Gallaher makes the Big Questions of how to exist in time while dying continuously and caring about everything and nothing intelligible, crafting little rhetorical homunculi who drag our errors off the page, smirking and crying and knowing their purpose is to end.
Gallaher redefines self-disclosure, giving in to neither the boring pornography of biography’s pathos nor the exhaustive, daily trivia of the writer showing his work. In a Landscape is honest, fine-grained, inventive, and deeply felt, scooping up a double handful of cognitive quicksilver from the mirror and offering it to us simply and slyly, without cheapening the reflections we find there.