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Rotten Perfect Mouth
Rotten Perfect Mouth is a wonderfully fresh first book by a writer with an intuitive ear for colourful, musical language. These poems are loose enough for the reader to flop down inside and stay awhile. They are plangent, personal, confessional, noisy, nostalgic, and maybe a little bit broken. They often contain boats and travel and Toronto (street names and railroad tracks, dives and parks and kitchens) because those are the sorts of things Eva H.D. is drawn to. In Rotten Perfect Mouth, readers will discover a writer with her heart on her sleeve and her hand on her pen, capturing the world around her with vibrant immediacy.
72 pages, Paperback
First published April 1, 2015
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Displaying 1 - 30 of 39 reviews
September 4, 2020
Came here from Charlie Kaufman (I'm Thinking of Ending Things)
Read
September 7, 2020Bonedog (I’m Thinking of Ending Things 2020)
Coming home was terrible
Whether the dogs lick your
face or not, whether you
have a wife or just a wife-
shaped loneliness waiting
for you. Coming home
is terribly lonely so
that you think
of the oppressive barometric
pressure back
where you have just come
from with fondness,
because everything’s worse
once you’re home.
You think of the
vermin clinging to the
grass stalks, long hours
on the road.. roadside
assistance and ice creams,
and the peculiar shapes of certain
clouds and silences with longing,
because you did not want to return.
Coming home is.. just awful.
And the home-style silences
and clouds contribute to nothing
but the general malaise.
Clouds, such as they are,
are in fact suspect and made
from a different material from
those you left behind.
You yourself were cut from
a different cloudy cloth,
returned, remaindered,
ill-met by moonlight,
unhappy to be back,
slack in all the wrong spots.
Seamy suit of clothes,
dishrag-ratty, worn.
You return home,
moon-landed, foreign.
The earth’s gravitational pull,
an effort now redoubled,
dragging your shoelaces
loose and your shoulders..
etching deeper the stanza
of worry on your forehead.
You return home deepened,
a parched well linked
to tomorrow by a frail
stand of.. anyway.
You sigh into the onslaught
of identical days,
one might as well,
at a time.
Well.. anyway,
you’re back.
The sun goes up and down
like a tired whore,
the weather immobile like
a broken limb while you
just keep getting older.
Nothing moves,
but the shifting tides
of salt in your body.
Your vision blears,
you carry your weather with you;
the big blue whale;
a skeletal darkness.
You come back with x-ray vision..
your eyes have become a hunger.
You come home with your
mutant gifts to a house of bone.
Everything you see now..
all of it..
bone.
Coming home was terrible
Whether the dogs lick your
face or not, whether you
have a wife or just a wife-
shaped loneliness waiting
for you. Coming home
is terribly lonely so
that you think
of the oppressive barometric
pressure back
where you have just come
from with fondness,
because everything’s worse
once you’re home.
You think of the
vermin clinging to the
grass stalks, long hours
on the road.. roadside
assistance and ice creams,
and the peculiar shapes of certain
clouds and silences with longing,
because you did not want to return.
Coming home is.. just awful.
And the home-style silences
and clouds contribute to nothing
but the general malaise.
Clouds, such as they are,
are in fact suspect and made
from a different material from
those you left behind.
You yourself were cut from
a different cloudy cloth,
returned, remaindered,
ill-met by moonlight,
unhappy to be back,
slack in all the wrong spots.
Seamy suit of clothes,
dishrag-ratty, worn.
You return home,
moon-landed, foreign.
The earth’s gravitational pull,
an effort now redoubled,
dragging your shoelaces
loose and your shoulders..
etching deeper the stanza
of worry on your forehead.
You return home deepened,
a parched well linked
to tomorrow by a frail
stand of.. anyway.
You sigh into the onslaught
of identical days,
one might as well,
at a time.
Well.. anyway,
you’re back.
The sun goes up and down
like a tired whore,
the weather immobile like
a broken limb while you
just keep getting older.
Nothing moves,
but the shifting tides
of salt in your body.
Your vision blears,
you carry your weather with you;
the big blue whale;
a skeletal darkness.
You come back with x-ray vision..
your eyes have become a hunger.
You come home with your
mutant gifts to a house of bone.
Everything you see now..
all of it..
bone.
September 22, 2020
The only place I could find this book was directly from it's publisher, Mansfield Press. I ordered it and received it yesterday. I'm only a few poems in and I've I've already fallen in love with poetry again. Incidentally, the poem Bonedog (from I’m Thinking of Ending Things 2020) is not actually in the book. This is information the internet doesn't seem to know yet. And I've struggled with announcing it, because what a find Eva HD is. Yet another Charlie Kaufman twist, it seems. What I cannot say however, because I haven't read the book in its entirety yet, is whether or not there are other clues in this book that relate to the movie, which you'd miss out on by not ordering. Maybe so. Maybe not. Regardless, this is probably the best poetry I've read in 20 years and I feel more alive with every word I read.
July 16, 2021
BONEDOG.
Coming home is terrible
whether the dogs lick your face or not;
whether you have a wife
or just a wife-shaped loneliness waiting for you.
Coming home is terribly lonely,
so that you think
of the oppressive barometric pressure
back where you have just come from
with fondness,
because everything’s worse
once you’re home.
You think of the vermin
clinging to the grass stalks,
long hours on the road,
roadside assistance and ice creams,
and the peculiar shapes of
certain clouds and silences
with longing because you did not want to return.
Coming home is
just awful.
And the home-style silences and clouds
contribute to nothing
but the general malaise.
Clouds, such as they are,
are in fact suspect,
and made from a different material
than those you left behind.
You yourself were cut
from a different cloudy cloth,
returned,
remaindered,
ill-met by moonlight,
unhappy to be back,
slack in all the wrong spots,
seamy suit of clothes
dishrag-ratty, worn.
You return home
moon-landed, foreign;
the Earth’s gravitational pull
an effort now redoubled,
dragging your shoelaces loose
and your shoulders
etching deeper the stanza
of worry on your forehead.
You return home deepened,
a parched well linked to tomorrow
by a frail strand of…
Anyway . . .
You sigh into the onslaught of identical days.
One might as well, at a time . . .
Well . . .
Anyway . . .
You’re back.
The sun goes up and down
like a tired whore,
the weather immobile
like a broken limb
while you just keep getting older.
Nothing moves but
the shifting tides of salt in your body.
Your vision blears.
You carry your weather with you,
the big blue whale,
a skeletal darkness.
You come back
with X-ray vision.
Your eyes have become a hunger.
You come home with your mutant gifts
to a house of bone.
Everything you see now,
all of it: bone.
Coming home is terrible
whether the dogs lick your face or not;
whether you have a wife
or just a wife-shaped loneliness waiting for you.
Coming home is terribly lonely,
so that you think
of the oppressive barometric pressure
back where you have just come from
with fondness,
because everything’s worse
once you’re home.
You think of the vermin
clinging to the grass stalks,
long hours on the road,
roadside assistance and ice creams,
and the peculiar shapes of
certain clouds and silences
with longing because you did not want to return.
Coming home is
just awful.
And the home-style silences and clouds
contribute to nothing
but the general malaise.
Clouds, such as they are,
are in fact suspect,
and made from a different material
than those you left behind.
You yourself were cut
from a different cloudy cloth,
returned,
remaindered,
ill-met by moonlight,
unhappy to be back,
slack in all the wrong spots,
seamy suit of clothes
dishrag-ratty, worn.
You return home
moon-landed, foreign;
the Earth’s gravitational pull
an effort now redoubled,
dragging your shoelaces loose
and your shoulders
etching deeper the stanza
of worry on your forehead.
You return home deepened,
a parched well linked to tomorrow
by a frail strand of…
Anyway . . .
You sigh into the onslaught of identical days.
One might as well, at a time . . .
Well . . .
Anyway . . .
You’re back.
The sun goes up and down
like a tired whore,
the weather immobile
like a broken limb
while you just keep getting older.
Nothing moves but
the shifting tides of salt in your body.
Your vision blears.
You carry your weather with you,
the big blue whale,
a skeletal darkness.
You come back
with X-ray vision.
Your eyes have become a hunger.
You come home with your mutant gifts
to a house of bone.
Everything you see now,
all of it: bone.
May 24, 2024
The sun was making a spectator sport of decline
Blushed and sliding down the oiled sky
Through my veins ran some gut-blood notion of the world
Eventually, it all sank into muddled darkness
The darkness bludgeoning the trees into nothings,
Translating the scenery into whispers and cracklings,
Half-groans and secret insects.
Same old stars back home waiting
For me to address them by name.
Life in it’s monotonous variety: boys, death, the weather. The wonders to write home about.
I’m mistaking everything for a sign, clocks, fog,
my crackling thumbs, shuffling raccoons, crumpled tickets.. cluttering up my April with import.
I turn up the music and make a thousand phone calls,
then turn it down and balk at the ululating silences clamoring and riffing my eardrums.
I am in a rapture of embarrassment over everything.
I make a thriving economy of rage.
I could likely go on like this - I could likely continue in this manner,
lapping Coors in plastic cups, shunting across the harbor in a skiff,
gulping cool yellow wine in the soggy satin city dark
I could go on going out,
Draped like a mountain cat on a mulberry branch
Brawling lushly over points of grammar.
Likely it is that I might
persevere in this vein until
the path becomes a prison
How to love without slaloming through catastrophe?
Two people doing this to each other again,
For nothing.
Blushed and sliding down the oiled sky
Through my veins ran some gut-blood notion of the world
Eventually, it all sank into muddled darkness
The darkness bludgeoning the trees into nothings,
Translating the scenery into whispers and cracklings,
Half-groans and secret insects.
Same old stars back home waiting
For me to address them by name.
Life in it’s monotonous variety: boys, death, the weather. The wonders to write home about.
I’m mistaking everything for a sign, clocks, fog,
my crackling thumbs, shuffling raccoons, crumpled tickets.. cluttering up my April with import.
I turn up the music and make a thousand phone calls,
then turn it down and balk at the ululating silences clamoring and riffing my eardrums.
I am in a rapture of embarrassment over everything.
I make a thriving economy of rage.
I could likely go on like this - I could likely continue in this manner,
lapping Coors in plastic cups, shunting across the harbor in a skiff,
gulping cool yellow wine in the soggy satin city dark
I could go on going out,
Draped like a mountain cat on a mulberry branch
Brawling lushly over points of grammar.
Likely it is that I might
persevere in this vein until
the path becomes a prison
How to love without slaloming through catastrophe?
Two people doing this to each other again,
For nothing.
This entire review has been hidden because of spoilers.
July 24, 2016
Exquisite collection. What i wrote in The Globe and Mail: "There is no greater verbal-sensual rush than discovering a great poet, and the mysterious Eva H.D. is that. Her poem 38 Michigans, an achingly bittersweet lament, won the Montreal International Poetry Prize this year, with the sole judge, Irish poet Eavan Boland, saying of it, “The whimsy itself suggests that grief has found a voice and is making its own reality with a devil-take-the-hindmost defiance.” And the collection Rotten Perfect Mouth is a miraculous calling forth of melancholy, but drenched with dry wit, very Toronto and deeply musical. Poetry find of the year, easily."
October 4, 2020
Eva H.D. has great energy and language, and this collection feels gritty & real.
I love finding a new-to-me poet. I bought this book after watching "I'm Thinking of Ending Things" (Netflix) which included the poem "Bonedog" by Eva H.D. However, this collection does NOT include that poem (despite all the internet 'sources') so I'll (happily) buy her other books to find the elusive "Bonedog."
February 2, 2021
"O my little winged/ insect, my phosphorescent/ plankton, why do you sleep/ so late? My listless honeybee./ Could I ask you to nibble on your/ version of events for a midnight/ snack, to guzzle it down before/ we die of it?" A wonderful collection, fresh and relatable and rooted in a particular life and in all of our lives.
May 2, 2016
I loved this. The poems are whimsical but grounded, they leave you wanting more. Took me awhile to read because each one had me staring off in space picturing whatever scenes and imagery it had prompted. Loved.
September 6, 2021
‘I am sandwiched by twin disasters, scrambled between beauty and despair… I may or may not remember this forever.’
Poetry that reminds you of the sinkhole in your gut that opens at the same time as your eyes when you see how fast the world passes by. You read about the world passing by, while the world passes by and you are done with these poems, but the world is not done with you. A somnolent delight!
Poetry that reminds you of the sinkhole in your gut that opens at the same time as your eyes when you see how fast the world passes by. You read about the world passing by, while the world passes by and you are done with these poems, but the world is not done with you. A somnolent delight!
October 1, 2022
4.75/5 stars
borrowed this from the library after watching “i’m thinking of ending things”, where the poem “bonedog” was featured, because i was absolutely mesmerized by that piece and this collection did not disappoint. the poems in this are so beautifully phrased and rhythmic, and capture the feelings of loneliness and belonging so beautifully. would 100% recommend!
borrowed this from the library after watching “i’m thinking of ending things”, where the poem “bonedog” was featured, because i was absolutely mesmerized by that piece and this collection did not disappoint. the poems in this are so beautifully phrased and rhythmic, and capture the feelings of loneliness and belonging so beautifully. would 100% recommend!
January 25, 2021
I've never really been a poetry person, but I was enchanted by the bleak and soul-crushing magic of the poem "Bone Dog" that was featured in the film "I'm Thinking of Ending Things." As other reviewers have mentioned, that specific poem is not in this collection. (I don't think it's actually been published outside of the film.) However, I wanted to read more by this author. I will say that none of these poems as a whole affected me in the same way as "Bone Dog," but there were some good moments scattered throughout and once in a while I would find a line that was very powerful and unique. Her prose about the different seasons specifically; I could smell the air. Overall, I still may not be a poetry person but I'm glad that I expanded my literary collection by ordering this from the publisher, and I can always print out a copy of "Bone Dog" and nestle it inside the pages.
June 2, 2017
My favourite poetry is heavy with association, and that's a big reason why this book works for me. Some very nice language in here too - I found a little bit overloaded sometimes, so that the words became difficult to parse altogether, but only sometimes. It helps that I'm currently living in Toronto, so the overall atmosphere of the book felt very near to my own life, or the people I know and see around me. This is the kind of poetry that's very close to every day people, and it's nice to read that, since these days I tend to do my reading on the streetcar or while waiting around at the laundromat.
I hope I get a chance to see Eva H.D. read her poetry at some point.
I hope I get a chance to see Eva H.D. read her poetry at some point.
July 12, 2015
Love Eva H.D.'s word choice and the way she combines words into the most beautiful phrases. These poems captivate the reader with their rhythm, imagery, and language. They are bittersweet, sometimes whimsical, and stay on the mind when the reading is over.
October 16, 2015
It's been a long time since I loved a poetry book as much as this.
March 23, 2017
Killer debut. Poet with attitude. Gritty. Awesomeness.
March 12, 2025
TLDR below:
I bought this book because the poem Bonedog was in the movie “I’m thinking of ending things” and I love it so much I had to buy this book. The scene where she reads that poem from this book is one of my favourite moments in the film…. Only one problem…. Bonedog isn’t in this book, it’s in another one of Eva H.D.s works. Seeing as how this movie takes place mostly in an old man’s head, this actually made me like the scene even more, the man remembers the poem, remembers it’s by Eva H.D., but doesn’t remember which book. I think it’s genius.
In terms of this work and its quality however, it’s awesome. Contemporary poetry doesn’t normally grab me. There have been a few recent works that I have read and they have been okay, but this is one that really got me. Eva has a way with words that I think speaks really well to a persons insecurities whether it be about love, loss, the future, the past, her words are moving to the core of the reader. It’s easy to follow, it’s short, and I genuinely think that this is a great writer for someone to start getting into poetry.
TLDR; great writer, speaks to the heart, poetry that anyone could sink their teeth into, Bonedog not found. Will be reviewing the work she has done that does contain Bonedog in the future.
I bought this book because the poem Bonedog was in the movie “I’m thinking of ending things” and I love it so much I had to buy this book. The scene where she reads that poem from this book is one of my favourite moments in the film…. Only one problem…. Bonedog isn’t in this book, it’s in another one of Eva H.D.s works. Seeing as how this movie takes place mostly in an old man’s head, this actually made me like the scene even more, the man remembers the poem, remembers it’s by Eva H.D., but doesn’t remember which book. I think it’s genius.
In terms of this work and its quality however, it’s awesome. Contemporary poetry doesn’t normally grab me. There have been a few recent works that I have read and they have been okay, but this is one that really got me. Eva has a way with words that I think speaks really well to a persons insecurities whether it be about love, loss, the future, the past, her words are moving to the core of the reader. It’s easy to follow, it’s short, and I genuinely think that this is a great writer for someone to start getting into poetry.
TLDR; great writer, speaks to the heart, poetry that anyone could sink their teeth into, Bonedog not found. Will be reviewing the work she has done that does contain Bonedog in the future.
Read
March 10, 2024I read poetry extremely slowly. Maybe it's because of the close reading habits they beat into me in school. Maybe it's because poetry collections tend to be both skinny and expensive and I feel I need to get my money's worth. In any case, this took a while, but not because it was bad. It was good. I got it because I wanted to read an alive poet and because Charlie Kaufman. The last alive person poetry collection I read was American Sonnets for My Past and Future Assassin. This isn't as good, but it's maybe somewhat reminiscent.
My favorites, for future reference:
Chewing Gum & Other Unintentions
Still Life With Canadiana
Mist
Teenage Stuff Forever <----really good
Peter and Dan Sit By The Tracks, II
Meteors
Safe In The Woods
Alto
On Certain Sundays
The Spice Store
Sickbed <---- REALLY really good
My favorites, for future reference:
Chewing Gum & Other Unintentions
Still Life With Canadiana
Mist
Teenage Stuff Forever <----really good
Peter and Dan Sit By The Tracks, II
Meteors
Safe In The Woods
Alto
On Certain Sundays
The Spice Store
Sickbed <---- REALLY really good
July 9, 2022
Like most people, I found Rotten Perfect Mouth through the movie, I'm Thinking of Ending Things. This collection of poems is wonderful, and I'm happy I purchased it, but if you're looking for "Bonedog," you won't find it here. I know, I know, everyone on the internet said it's in this collection and the movie shows the poem in this collection. But sorry, it's just not here. I was all, huh?, when I got to the end and hadn't read it yet. But you should still buy this book! None of these poems gave me Bonedog feels, but every poem made me feel something and there was that truth somewhere in each poem that bounced off the emptiness. I'm happy to add this to my modest poetry collection and hope to read more from Eva H.D. in the future.
December 26, 2020
There is a playful solemnity and loneliness throughout this book that feels unique. I haven't read poetry quite like hers though I was often reminded of Wallace Stevens' "Snow Man" in various poems.
Eva's word choice is impeccable and her poems all feel like they are the right length. The last line in all of her poems shimmer in a way that calls me back. I will definitely be re-reading this and I recommend reading this in the fall or the winter.
Eva's word choice is impeccable and her poems all feel like they are the right length. The last line in all of her poems shimmer in a way that calls me back. I will definitely be re-reading this and I recommend reading this in the fall or the winter.
January 30, 2021
I found Rotten Perfect Mouth through the movie I'm Thinking of Ending Things and am happy I picked it up. I'm still not sure how to review poetry, but I liked the imagery Eva H.D. managed to conjure up and the world she creates with her poetry. It's a place of longing and hardship and small pleasures.
August 16, 2024
this is the most beautiful book of poetry. “Teenage Stuff Forever” is my favourite poem of all time. Its the “Cats in the Cradle” cycle of toxic masculinity story but from the perspective of the WOMEN that have to DEAL WITH IT. amazing. Eva H.D. is an incredible talent. this book is perfect. it lives in my soul.
September 29, 2020
The rare and perfect sensation of coming across chiseled granite, each splinter necessary and wise. The tools: age, and song. And eventually an overarching reminiscence that passes over, and onward, without lingering in the forming shadows.
January 10, 2021
Has its charms, chuckles, and gut-punches, for sure,
but no highlight like the high
of Jessie Buckley’s inspired and apropos
of nothing recitation of Bonedog
In I’m Thinking of Ending Things
periodt
but no highlight like the high
of Jessie Buckley’s inspired and apropos
of nothing recitation of Bonedog
In I’m Thinking of Ending Things
periodt
Read
September 28, 2022The blackbird broke (sad)
Little Windmill (alot of fun)
Nothing a wolf can do (some banger lines and great ending)
Teenage stuff forever (fun)
Grytviken (The morning is magnificent. Then ends.)
“A casual spectator could be forgiven in mistaking this display of abject dispair for an orgy”
Little Windmill (alot of fun)
Nothing a wolf can do (some banger lines and great ending)
Teenage stuff forever (fun)
Grytviken (The morning is magnificent. Then ends.)
“A casual spectator could be forgiven in mistaking this display of abject dispair for an orgy”
November 27, 2023
I loved “Sickbed”- it was by far my favorite. However, I’m not sure if it’s because I missed a lot of the Toronto references, but many of the poems just didn’t hit home with me. They were fine, maybe just not my cup of tea.
February 8, 2021
I was really excited to read this collection after hearing Bonedog recited in "I'm thinking of ending things". I was less impressed with Eva's other poems in this book.
June 20, 2022
Came because of Bonedog, stayed because Eva is definitely not a one hit wonder. Will be buying more of her poetry in the future after I read this one through a couple more times.
August 17, 2022
Great book.
Read
December 27, 2022I don’t have a star-rating but I do think about and proceed to fawn over “and of course, I might have loved you/ with that gauzy, crinoline love,/ a peachy blur” almost daily
Displaying 1 - 30 of 39 reviews