Abundance

by Robin Chapman

Poetry. Winner of the 2007 Cider Press Review Book Award, selected by the Editors of Cider Press. The poems in ABUNDANCE richly mine often overlooked details of the natural world, wisely juxtaposing them with daily life. Like a landscape photographer, Chapman conveys the narrator's story by the views witnessed, until the collection becomes a celebration of the lost art of leaving the house. She interweaves the personal with the objectively experiential so carefully that we lose sight of the "boundary" between the prairies, marshes, woods and rivers and the lives of those people fortunate enough to be immersed in these landscapes. The narrator ceases to be a mere observer of the natural world; instead she comes to occupy her rightful place as another integral element. So much of life is consumed and occluded by the very process of living that we miss the abundant world around us because we forget to reckon it, to open our eyes. The impetus of this collection is simple: Chapman would have us all remember to "pay attention, pay / attention, pay attention."

Genres: Poetry

80 pages, Paperback

First published February 1, 2009

Reviews

[Anne · Rating 4 out of 5]

Strong, well-placed poems that make me feel the poet's intentions. The tone and descriptions are reminiscent of Mary Oliver's fine eye for detail when it comes to observing nature.

[Doug · Rating 3 out of 5]

If you can find three to five good poems in a standard book of poetry, then it has succeeded. This one does that with the poems -- "Seven A.M.," "The Territory of Horses," "Holding On," "These are the Words for Morning," and the final, very strong poem of the collection, "Happiness." My favorite image from "Double Happiness" -- the air "rolls in low fogbanks / along the shore, and two swans / collecting all the light / drift in the quiet water." But most of the poems in this collection lack tension and rely on description alone, especially descriptions of nature, to pull off their goals. Description, even good description, is too weak to succeed on its own, for any poet.