Filtered through the twin lenses of human history and personal memory, and suffused with ironic appreciation, A Form of Optimism engages in a prismatic meditation on beauty and evil, cornucopia and loss. The book becomes a lyrical mosaic, its compelling poems the broken sharp-edged and colorful, translucent, evocative. Drawing on the author's cross-cultural work in international health, the poems range widely and naturally across setting, personage, and tongue--from Istanbul to Detroit, Mother Teresa to Gorm the Old, Swahili to Sanskrit. Variously anxious, rueful, witty, tender, and worn, A Form of Optimism transcribes an arc of compassion and hope, embracing the sublime mysteries of the world and the word.
I guess I'm just not quite sure where the poems are trying to take me. I appreciate the elegaic final section to Agha Shahid Ali, but I guess what I'm trying to understand is what all these poems add together to make. The book reminds me a lot of "Western History," whose facts don't really seem to add up to some larger statement, though Jacobstein takes me to his own conclusion about bombs and handmade grenades.