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Hunting Down the Monk
Drawing from her work in comparative religion and cultural anthropology, Adrie Kusserow offers a collection of portraits of Westerners in the East and Easterners in the West struggling to relearn and relive their ideas of culture, religion, and God. These poems expose the human craving for the nourishment of a spiritual life. Celebrated poet Karen Swenson has written the Foreword. Adrie Kusserow received her Ph.D. in social anthropology from Harvard University in 1996 and is currently associate professor of cultural anthropology at St. Michael’s College in Vermont. She continues to do cross-cultural field work on the spread of Eastern philosophies to the West.
- GenresPoetry
96 pages, Paperback
First published October 1, 2002
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Displaying 1 - 4 of 4 reviews
January 1, 2019
You know the feeling of not having read something decent in a long time? It feels like all your best books are behind you and at some point you beg for some refreshing images, ideas, or some pages to go by so fast you lose track of time.
Ms Kusserow did that for me and I am thankful. A person I met at a random diner party suggested I read some poetry from a Vermonter while visiting, just to get a feel of the place and people. Well, Ms Adrie ,sitting there in her little awkward black-and-white photo, did more that that for me. Two or three poems hit right at home, establishing that rare connection you can have with an author when they voice a though or idea in which you recognize yourself . The cell is a poem I will be reading for a long time. I liked it so much I typed it for you. That's right, typed not copy pasted. You welcomed.
The cell
What would you say, if I told you, the goal of evolution has nothing to do with crawling out of some sluggish protean soup, joyfully flexing your limbs, buff with newfound solidity, glistening with separation.
Or if I told you progress meant a mass migration back into the original swamp, with its slothful DNA, your body lying there, no longer an island, dissolving as easily as Wonder bread.
What if I told you, my biggest fear is that one cell of myself might remain, my cowardly ego rushing to that cell like an army of ants clinging desperately to the last dry crumb.
What if, peering over the edge, I still felt the full horror of separation? what if one cell were big enough for that old ache to take up residence, like some cranky old man on his porch rocker, and beneath him, what if the mad woman with the matted hair and lightening in her brain, barred herself in the basement, loneliness growing like mold along the walls of her chest.
or what if the one remaining cell were a black hole of sorts, a condensed ego, no light or sound escaping.
Come here, quickly press your ear against my flesh. Hear the rush, the space, and the tiny distant moans high as sound can get ¬
this is the sound of loneliness
clinging to that cell,
the sound of loneliness
drowning.
Ms Kusserow did that for me and I am thankful. A person I met at a random diner party suggested I read some poetry from a Vermonter while visiting, just to get a feel of the place and people. Well, Ms Adrie ,sitting there in her little awkward black-and-white photo, did more that that for me. Two or three poems hit right at home, establishing that rare connection you can have with an author when they voice a though or idea in which you recognize yourself . The cell is a poem I will be reading for a long time. I liked it so much I typed it for you. That's right, typed not copy pasted. You welcomed.
The cell
What would you say, if I told you, the goal of evolution has nothing to do with crawling out of some sluggish protean soup, joyfully flexing your limbs, buff with newfound solidity, glistening with separation.
Or if I told you progress meant a mass migration back into the original swamp, with its slothful DNA, your body lying there, no longer an island, dissolving as easily as Wonder bread.
What if I told you, my biggest fear is that one cell of myself might remain, my cowardly ego rushing to that cell like an army of ants clinging desperately to the last dry crumb.
What if, peering over the edge, I still felt the full horror of separation? what if one cell were big enough for that old ache to take up residence, like some cranky old man on his porch rocker, and beneath him, what if the mad woman with the matted hair and lightening in her brain, barred herself in the basement, loneliness growing like mold along the walls of her chest.
or what if the one remaining cell were a black hole of sorts, a condensed ego, no light or sound escaping.
Come here, quickly press your ear against my flesh. Hear the rush, the space, and the tiny distant moans high as sound can get ¬
this is the sound of loneliness
clinging to that cell,
the sound of loneliness
drowning.
April 12, 2019
Visceral and evocative. The poems about death resonated the most for me, particularly Love Poem to Jane.
March 17, 2019
I read a different edition of this book years ago and it is still one of my FAVORITE poetry collections! For me personally, there are three poems in particular, written with such rich and meaningful language...even though I've read them multiple times, they are still moving!
March 6, 2007
This is my favorite Poetry Book!
Displaying 1 - 4 of 4 reviews