Mishler’s poems are a series of strange, atmospheric, surrealist dioramas; the language is both beautiful and skillful, a conflation of fever dream and real, live earth.
Peter Mishler is the author of two collections of poetry: Fludde, which won the Kathryn A. Morton Prize (Sarabande Books, 2018) and Children in Tactical Gear, which won the Iowa Poetry Prize (University of Iowa Press, 2024). His work has appeared in The Paris Review, The American Poetry Review, Poetry London, and Granta. He is also the author of For All You Do, a candid, meditative tribute to teachers (Andrews McMeel) and serves as a contributing editor for Literary Hub.
Another of the Rumpus selections. Mishler's poetry was not to my taste. It can be summed up in his take on the title in the Rumpus interview: "the title of the book is referencing the title of a twentieth-century opera for amateurs by Benjamin Britten… which takes its libretto from a Middle English mystery play (which tells the story of Noah’s Flood)."
No one is going to get that. No one is going to care. Yes, his images are strange and juxtaposed, but I lost any desire to try and figure out why. Maybe because I'm just not up on my amateur opera and medieval mystery plays. That said, I know surreal dystopias and strange juxtapositions and magical realism have their adherents. I'm just not one of them.
I’ve been waiting, like, 7 years for this collection?? Peter Mishler was part of the reason I started Ghost City Press and he was there for my early days at Kaleidoscope Lit Mag. I’m so lucky to know him, and to be able to call him a mentor and a friend.
A superb, startling collection—I particularly like "Surf City," "To a Feverish Child," "Little Lord Fauntleroy," and "Children of the Epipendom." What feels so delightful about this collection is its continual deployment of anachronism, not just on the subject matter level but also on the language level, the way that Latinate whoppers and words we might encounter in fantasy novels rub elbows with the detritus of consumer culture detritus. It can be seen in such collocations as "a whalebone wrested from the tabernacle by thieves / a furniture outlet looted clean" and "the stinking ligatures on the helmsman's neck / a sea full of in-flight magazines." These are both quotes from a list in the final poem that seems to be replaying and crystalizing much of the collection's techniques and obsessions.
"the story becoming more distant and strange the more I fear the person listening."
Not bad. A little too much surrealism for my taste, but not to an unpleasant degree. Just a little too vague? Sometimes too obvious. I'm still ambivalent.
I think Dean Young rightly notes of Mishler that his poems remind us that "perceptions that never stray far from sensations."
a constantly surprising stream of dreamlike, nigh-surrealist images and scenes, all strung together fluidly and seamlessly. it’s at times sardonic, but more importantly jst beautiful in a vivid, swirling, and almost eery manner. sometimes difficult to follow along at length, bc it can get so abstract and is constantly in motion. evokes some of the sensations and visions of childhood amid its wanderings
I think it's me. I love some of Mishler's turns of phrase, but maybe I'm not yet ready to engage in this sort of writing with so little story and so little direction.