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Final Fort
Poetry. Winner of the Bright Hill Press 2015 Poetry Competition, selected by Alice B. Fogel, New Hampshire Poet Laureate, and Bertha Rogers, Editor in Chief, Bright Hill Press. "Without autobiographical impulse but not without personal pronouns, Caroline Morrell's non-narrative poetry captivates by image, rhythm, and a suggestion of object over subject. This work surprises at every turn, and rewards an intrigued delving. FINAL FORT's oceanic undertow is gorgeous and dangerous, propelled by an urgency of strangeness that reveals more slant than so many others' poems miss when they attempt to tell us straight. These poems 'feed [us] to the seemingly empty space' where then our minds 'will bouquet.'" —Alice B. Fogel
96 pages, Paperback
Published October 30, 2016
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Displaying 1 of 1 review
May 28, 2018
Savory this and that..
Caroline Brooke Morrell's poetry will change the way you feel and taste language. She creates a mythos of the natural world, a peppermint field of burglars "With the aid of forked branches/all my syrups were stolen, nim!/fire stolen, rickety nim!"
"I should look at how we look at owls," she writes. I don't know how her poems cleave together but, as art, they do. From The Lore of Waiting "you carry yourself around with you all the time.." to With her back resting against the newly burnt rows "She opens the cinnamon tin with a dent in mind..."
If this is a play on postmodern domesticity, it's powerful and at times dark. "She loosened her shoes, feeling late/for stiff fish on the floor of the boat./And the winter won't hear of it."
"A woman in Fort threw herself into the/river off the bridge one night last week. 'She must/have been insane,' they said--you can't help but feel it must have been a lucid moment among patches of/ice."
Caroline Brooke Morrell's poetry will change the way you feel and taste language. She creates a mythos of the natural world, a peppermint field of burglars "With the aid of forked branches/all my syrups were stolen, nim!/fire stolen, rickety nim!"
"I should look at how we look at owls," she writes. I don't know how her poems cleave together but, as art, they do. From The Lore of Waiting "you carry yourself around with you all the time.." to With her back resting against the newly burnt rows "She opens the cinnamon tin with a dent in mind..."
If this is a play on postmodern domesticity, it's powerful and at times dark. "She loosened her shoes, feeling late/for stiff fish on the floor of the boat./And the winter won't hear of it."
"A woman in Fort threw herself into the/river off the bridge one night last week. 'She must/have been insane,' they said--you can't help but feel it must have been a lucid moment among patches of/ice."
Displaying 1 of 1 review