Is it possible for poetry to be simultaneously raw and elegant, direct and oblique, hurtful and consoling? Yes, says Dear Delinquent, Ann Townsend's incandescent new collection. "My heart presses my ribcage like an octagon fist," she writes, taking on the persona of both betrayed and betrayer. Through poems that masterfully recall the styles of Sylvia Plath or Philip Larkin, Townsend convinces us that, even if its most destructive forms, love is the driving force behind all behavior.
(We have been away camping. So I brought 4 books to read around the campfire.)
A damn amazing poet ...and my advisor in college, as well. This collection is sexy, brutal, elegaic, physical, erotic, moving, violent, sexy, elegant, formal, controlled, sexy, joyful, and smart. Sounds just about right.
#SealeyChallenge #AnnTownsend
From “A Sign”
“All men reach out to know, he said, testing, probing for pain.
Besides, he said, Theognis knew a beautiful thing inspires attachment.
But a mouth is just a hive outwelling its sweetness, its sting, I said. Beauty dies, I said."
I feel like I didn't really get Townsend's style. Her poetry wasn't really my thing, if I'm being honest. Well, at least in the beginning. I enjoyed the last third significantly more than the first, with favorites being Kissification, Doll, Lives of British Poets and From His Car.
A collection of poetry that focuses on an affair, desire, lust, and tangled emotions.
from Meretricious Kisses: "The mind knows when to stand back, / let the dance have its say. Reached / behind me, thumb and index finger / deftly unhooking."
from The Lighthouse: "Behind it, a staircase fit for a child, / where she might climb and consider // what kind of woman throws herself / to the limestone waves below."
All Clear: "After the lockdown drill, / the practice playing dead, // we've come outside // to name the leaves, / come bundled and penciled // to appease the gods // of civic poetry who torment / little children into verse."