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Tell Me
Poems of loneliness and late nights, liquor and loss.
90 pages, Paperback
First published January 1, 2000
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2094 people want to read
About the author
Kim Addonizio
65 books604 followersAuthor of several poetry collections including Tell Me, a National Book Award Finalist. My Black Angel is a book of blues poems with woodcuts by Charles D. Jones, from SFA Press. The Palace of Illusions is a story collection from Counterpoint/Soft Skull. A New & Selected, Wild Nights, is out in the UK from Bloodaxe Books.
2016 publications: Mortal Trash, new poems, from W.W. Norton, awarded the Paterson Poetry Prize. A memoir, Bukowski in a Sundress: Confessions from a Writing Life, from Penguin.
Two instructional books on writing poetry: The Poet's Companion (with Dorianne Laux), and Ordinary Genius: A Guide for the Poet Within.
First novel, Little Beauties, was published by Simon & Schuster and chosen as "Best Book of the Month" by Book of the Month Club. My Dreams Out in the Street, second novel, released by Simon & Schuster in 2007.
A new word/music CD, "My Black Angel, "is a collaboration with several musicians and contains all the poems in the book of that name. That and an earlier word/music CD with poet Susan Browne, "Swearing, Smoking, Drinking, & Kissing," available from cdbaby.com. There's an earlier book of stories, In the Box Called Pleasure (FC2); and the anthology Dorothy Parker's Elbow: Tattoos on Writers, Writers on Tattoos,, co-edited with Cheryl Dumesnil.
I teach poetry workshops at conferences and online through my web site. I also play blues harmonica, and I'm learning jazz flute. Music is a good place to focus when I'm in a writing slump.
2016 publications: Mortal Trash, new poems, from W.W. Norton, awarded the Paterson Poetry Prize. A memoir, Bukowski in a Sundress: Confessions from a Writing Life, from Penguin.
Two instructional books on writing poetry: The Poet's Companion (with Dorianne Laux), and Ordinary Genius: A Guide for the Poet Within.
First novel, Little Beauties, was published by Simon & Schuster and chosen as "Best Book of the Month" by Book of the Month Club. My Dreams Out in the Street, second novel, released by Simon & Schuster in 2007.
A new word/music CD, "My Black Angel, "is a collaboration with several musicians and contains all the poems in the book of that name. That and an earlier word/music CD with poet Susan Browne, "Swearing, Smoking, Drinking, & Kissing," available from cdbaby.com. There's an earlier book of stories, In the Box Called Pleasure (FC2); and the anthology Dorothy Parker's Elbow: Tattoos on Writers, Writers on Tattoos,, co-edited with Cheryl Dumesnil.
I teach poetry workshops at conferences and online through my web site. I also play blues harmonica, and I'm learning jazz flute. Music is a good place to focus when I'm in a writing slump.
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June 19, 2019
This book is awesome. I think everyone should read it. One of my favorite books of the year. And it has been around for awhile now, 15 years! And she has been around now for awhile! She’s almost my age and has published many many books! Where have I been? Reading Keats’s “Ode on a Grecian Urn”? Okay, that’s good, too. But maybe it's time for me to read more poetry? This is the poetry of Whitman and Sharon Olds. And Bukowski. Bad-ass women poetry, with a touch of tenderness. It makes me want to write poetry as much as read it, which doesn’t happen often.
Addonizio has a memoir coming out this summer, Bukowski in a Sundress: Confessions from a Writing Life, and this might put you in the direction of the kind of poetry it is, though it’s maybe a little less gritty (oh, right, the sun dress!) and profane, though it is gritty and profane, usually refreshingly. She tells the truth.
“What do Women Want?”
I want a red dress.
I want it flimsy and cheap,
I want it too tight, I want to wear it
until someone tears it off me.
I want it sleeveless and backless,
this dress, so no one has to guess
what’s underneath. I want to walk down
the street past Thrifty’s and the hardware store
with all those keys glittering in the window,
past Mr. and Mrs. Wong selling day-old
donuts in their café, past the Guerra brothers
slinging pigs from the truck and onto the dolly,
hoisting the slick snouts over their shoulders.
I want to walk like I’m the only
woman on earth and I can have my pick.
I want that red dress bad.
I want it to confirm
your worst fears about me,
to show you how little I care about you
or anything except what
I want. When I find it, I’ll pull that garment
from its hanger like I’m choosing a body
to carry me into this world, through
the birth-cries and the love-cries too,
and I’ll wear it like bones, like skin,
it’ll be the goddamned
dress they bury me in.
These poems might be categorized as confessional. She titles it Tell Me, the titular poem for which is an invitation to the listener to tell her our stories of loss and grief, because she is at this point sick of dwelling on her own losses. Mostly narrative, laced with lyrical explosions (not often quiet) these poems (and or their narrator) I would describe as worried, anxious, desperate, passionate, funny, sexy, working class. These poems are mostly about her experiences as a woman living a life around men, with regret, with pain, with loss. She’s tough, she’s not a delicate little flower, she writes of the comfort and the escape of drink and getting drunk and sex and relationships and loss and death. And being a daughter and mother. These are honest visceral poems, not academic East coast language poems, they are a scream, sometimes tortured, sometimes funny. She wants a sense of purpose, and happiness and commitment and love and passion and she writes out of a desire to have them. And she sometimes gets them. When she does, she is, based on her experience, (not quite) prepared to lose them.
I recall Alison Krause telling us in the audience that her band was nervous when a favorite songwriter had found True Love, since they—a country/bluegrass band--would have to find another songwriter. I get it: I don’t (think I) want to hear your happy poems, Kim, I want these poems, from the edge of madness and delirium. Middle of the night poems.
What do I know of the literature of booze? Bukoski, surely. Booze soaks all the sad stories of Raymond Carver. Malcolm Lowry’s Under the Volcano madness death-trip alcoholism. Kerouac, surely, tracks his decline through each successive novel, moving inexorably to an early end. And this, about a woman who actually writes a poem about having a romantic relationship with drink. These are the poems of booze and loss and tenderness and beauty, with some surprising lyrical turns. She will not look away from the hard stuff, never. The hard liquor, the hard times, her mother’s aging, her friend’s cancer.
Poems about shooting a gun, a glass, bar jokes (“A man walks into a bar. You think that’s some kind of joke?”), Siamese Twins, a poem that is a movie review and reflection on violence against women (“Virgin Spring”), a poem about drunks as zombies. . . not a boring poem in the bunch. Not Keats? Oh, I am quite sure he’s happy to have her in the club and have a drink with her!
Most of all, I think these poems are rhapsodic romantic poems about being her being a woman. These are poems for women, and not nice flowery poems, bad ass poems, and I loved them.
Good Girl
Look at you, sitting there being good.
After two years you're still dying for a cigarette.
And not drinking on weekdays, who thought that one up?
Don't you want to run to the corner right now
for a fifth of vodka and have it with cranberry juice
and a nice lemon slice, wouldn't the backyard
that you're so sick of staring out into
look better then, the tidy yard your landlord tends
day and night — the fence with its fresh coat of paint,
the ash-free barbeque, the patio swept clean of small twigs —
don't you want to mess it all up, to roll around
like a dog in his flowerbeds? Aren't you a dog anyway,
always groveling for love and begging to be petted?
You ought to get into the garbage and lick the insides
of the can, the greasy wrappers, the picked-over bones,
you ought to drive your snout into the coffee grounds.
Ah, coffee! Why not gulp some down with four cigarettes
and then blast naked into the streets, and leap on the first
beautiful man you find? The words Ruin me, haven't they
been jailed in your throat for forty years, isn't it time
you set them loose in slutty dresses and torn fishnets
to totter around in five-inch heels and slutty mascara?
Sure it's time. You've rolled over long enough.
Forty, forty-one. At the end of all this
there's one lousy biscuit, and it tastes like dirt.
So get going. Listen: they're howling for you now:
up and down the block your neighbors' dogs
burst into frenzied barking and won't shut up.
Addonizio has a memoir coming out this summer, Bukowski in a Sundress: Confessions from a Writing Life, and this might put you in the direction of the kind of poetry it is, though it’s maybe a little less gritty (oh, right, the sun dress!) and profane, though it is gritty and profane, usually refreshingly. She tells the truth.
“What do Women Want?”
I want a red dress.
I want it flimsy and cheap,
I want it too tight, I want to wear it
until someone tears it off me.
I want it sleeveless and backless,
this dress, so no one has to guess
what’s underneath. I want to walk down
the street past Thrifty’s and the hardware store
with all those keys glittering in the window,
past Mr. and Mrs. Wong selling day-old
donuts in their café, past the Guerra brothers
slinging pigs from the truck and onto the dolly,
hoisting the slick snouts over their shoulders.
I want to walk like I’m the only
woman on earth and I can have my pick.
I want that red dress bad.
I want it to confirm
your worst fears about me,
to show you how little I care about you
or anything except what
I want. When I find it, I’ll pull that garment
from its hanger like I’m choosing a body
to carry me into this world, through
the birth-cries and the love-cries too,
and I’ll wear it like bones, like skin,
it’ll be the goddamned
dress they bury me in.
These poems might be categorized as confessional. She titles it Tell Me, the titular poem for which is an invitation to the listener to tell her our stories of loss and grief, because she is at this point sick of dwelling on her own losses. Mostly narrative, laced with lyrical explosions (not often quiet) these poems (and or their narrator) I would describe as worried, anxious, desperate, passionate, funny, sexy, working class. These poems are mostly about her experiences as a woman living a life around men, with regret, with pain, with loss. She’s tough, she’s not a delicate little flower, she writes of the comfort and the escape of drink and getting drunk and sex and relationships and loss and death. And being a daughter and mother. These are honest visceral poems, not academic East coast language poems, they are a scream, sometimes tortured, sometimes funny. She wants a sense of purpose, and happiness and commitment and love and passion and she writes out of a desire to have them. And she sometimes gets them. When she does, she is, based on her experience, (not quite) prepared to lose them.
I recall Alison Krause telling us in the audience that her band was nervous when a favorite songwriter had found True Love, since they—a country/bluegrass band--would have to find another songwriter. I get it: I don’t (think I) want to hear your happy poems, Kim, I want these poems, from the edge of madness and delirium. Middle of the night poems.
What do I know of the literature of booze? Bukoski, surely. Booze soaks all the sad stories of Raymond Carver. Malcolm Lowry’s Under the Volcano madness death-trip alcoholism. Kerouac, surely, tracks his decline through each successive novel, moving inexorably to an early end. And this, about a woman who actually writes a poem about having a romantic relationship with drink. These are the poems of booze and loss and tenderness and beauty, with some surprising lyrical turns. She will not look away from the hard stuff, never. The hard liquor, the hard times, her mother’s aging, her friend’s cancer.
Poems about shooting a gun, a glass, bar jokes (“A man walks into a bar. You think that’s some kind of joke?”), Siamese Twins, a poem that is a movie review and reflection on violence against women (“Virgin Spring”), a poem about drunks as zombies. . . not a boring poem in the bunch. Not Keats? Oh, I am quite sure he’s happy to have her in the club and have a drink with her!
Most of all, I think these poems are rhapsodic romantic poems about being her being a woman. These are poems for women, and not nice flowery poems, bad ass poems, and I loved them.
Good Girl
Look at you, sitting there being good.
After two years you're still dying for a cigarette.
And not drinking on weekdays, who thought that one up?
Don't you want to run to the corner right now
for a fifth of vodka and have it with cranberry juice
and a nice lemon slice, wouldn't the backyard
that you're so sick of staring out into
look better then, the tidy yard your landlord tends
day and night — the fence with its fresh coat of paint,
the ash-free barbeque, the patio swept clean of small twigs —
don't you want to mess it all up, to roll around
like a dog in his flowerbeds? Aren't you a dog anyway,
always groveling for love and begging to be petted?
You ought to get into the garbage and lick the insides
of the can, the greasy wrappers, the picked-over bones,
you ought to drive your snout into the coffee grounds.
Ah, coffee! Why not gulp some down with four cigarettes
and then blast naked into the streets, and leap on the first
beautiful man you find? The words Ruin me, haven't they
been jailed in your throat for forty years, isn't it time
you set them loose in slutty dresses and torn fishnets
to totter around in five-inch heels and slutty mascara?
Sure it's time. You've rolled over long enough.
Forty, forty-one. At the end of all this
there's one lousy biscuit, and it tastes like dirt.
So get going. Listen: they're howling for you now:
up and down the block your neighbors' dogs
burst into frenzied barking and won't shut up.
Read
July 2, 2007"What Do Women Want?"
by Kim Addonizio
I want a red dress.
I want it flimsy and cheap,
I want it too tight, I want to wear it
until someone tears it off me.
I want it sleeveless and backless,
this dress, so no one has to guess
what's underneath. I want to walk down
the street past Thrifty's and the hardware store
with all those keys glittering in the window,
past Mr. and Mrs. Wong selling day-old
donuts in their café, past the Guerra brothers
slinging pigs from the truck and onto the dolly,
hoisting the slick snouts over their shoulders.
I want to walk like I'm the only
woman on earth and I can have my pick.
I want that red dress bad.
I want it to confirm
your worst fears about me,
to show you how little I care about you
or anything except what
I want. When I find it, I'll pull that garment
from its hanger like I'm choosing a body
to carry me into this world, through
the birth-cries and the love-cries too,
and I'll wear it like bones, like skin,
it'll be the goddamned
dress they bury me in.
by Kim Addonizio
I want a red dress.
I want it flimsy and cheap,
I want it too tight, I want to wear it
until someone tears it off me.
I want it sleeveless and backless,
this dress, so no one has to guess
what's underneath. I want to walk down
the street past Thrifty's and the hardware store
with all those keys glittering in the window,
past Mr. and Mrs. Wong selling day-old
donuts in their café, past the Guerra brothers
slinging pigs from the truck and onto the dolly,
hoisting the slick snouts over their shoulders.
I want to walk like I'm the only
woman on earth and I can have my pick.
I want that red dress bad.
I want it to confirm
your worst fears about me,
to show you how little I care about you
or anything except what
I want. When I find it, I'll pull that garment
from its hanger like I'm choosing a body
to carry me into this world, through
the birth-cries and the love-cries too,
and I'll wear it like bones, like skin,
it'll be the goddamned
dress they bury me in.
November 13, 2020
Good-bye to how you’d curl away in sleep,
one hand to your forehead, doing the hard work
of dreaming; and to the early dark,
you on the bed’s edge, pulling on your shoes,
the quick kiss before you joined the others
sealed into cars along the highway,
going away all day and coming back
to set the paper bag beside the sink
and pour the first drink, and the next, the ones
after that; good-bye to your drunkenness,
which I admit I liked because of how
you’d cry sometimes, or follow me from room
to room, naked, dripping from a bath,
able to say what you couldn’t, sober.
Love, I’m going. Line up the drained bottles,
audience for your beloved Schumann
pounded out at the piano, the rhythms awkward,
the wrong notes repeating… Good-bye, this
is the leaving song, it’s almost over.
I used to lie awake and hold you as you slept;
when you snored I smoothed the fine hair
on your head, and watched your lovely face
and wished you someone else, who even
in the lamplight, and the smoke-thick air
from your constant cigarettes, never would appear.
April 19, 2016
I seriously loved this. So, so good. I'm temporarily wishing for a 10-star system, because I gave Addonizio's Lucifer at the Starlite five stars, and it deserved them, but I probably liked this one twice as much.
November 14, 2015
"I only want to walk
a little longer in the cold
blessing of the rain,
and lift my face to it."
This book is incredible. And the style of writing is my absolute favorite.
There are poems in this I know I'll never forget, lines and paragraphs I'll read over and over until I know them by heart. Especially "Glass", "The Lovers" "What do women want" and "New Year's Day" struck a chord with me. And why is that? Why is it I can read another persons words and find myself reflected back at me? I don't know, but it happened. Not as much in this book, as it did in Richard Siken's Crush, but still gave me the experience of having someone reach into my head and unlock a piece of my soul.
But there were also poems I saw little of myself in. And this is probably mostly due to the age difference between Kim Addonizio and myself. She wrote this book as a self-examination, as a reflection upon the past and herself. A fearless, honest dive into what used to be. But I'm just not there yet. I've not experienced what she has. I'm not a mother, I've never been married (or even seriously considered it), so there are things that are not yet relevant to me.
Despite this it is still amazingly written and an outstanding collection of reflections and thoughts on life and love, the bad and the good. And what it is to be a woman. If anything, I thank her for that.
I definitely intend to pick up this book again in 10 or 20 years and hopefully then I'll understand what I'm not capable of grasping now.
And I can't wait.
"Forget that loser. Just tell me who's buying, who's paying;
Christ but I'm thirsty, and I want to tell you something,
come close I want to whisper it, to pour
the words burning into you, the same words for each one of you,
listen, it's simple, I'm saying it now, while I'm still sober,
while I'm not about to weep bitterly into my own glass,
while you're still here - don't go yet, stay, stay,
give me your shoulder to lean against, steady me, don't let me drop
I'm so in love with you I can't stand up."
a little longer in the cold
blessing of the rain,
and lift my face to it."
This book is incredible. And the style of writing is my absolute favorite.
There are poems in this I know I'll never forget, lines and paragraphs I'll read over and over until I know them by heart. Especially "Glass", "The Lovers" "What do women want" and "New Year's Day" struck a chord with me. And why is that? Why is it I can read another persons words and find myself reflected back at me? I don't know, but it happened. Not as much in this book, as it did in Richard Siken's Crush, but still gave me the experience of having someone reach into my head and unlock a piece of my soul.
But there were also poems I saw little of myself in. And this is probably mostly due to the age difference between Kim Addonizio and myself. She wrote this book as a self-examination, as a reflection upon the past and herself. A fearless, honest dive into what used to be. But I'm just not there yet. I've not experienced what she has. I'm not a mother, I've never been married (or even seriously considered it), so there are things that are not yet relevant to me.
Despite this it is still amazingly written and an outstanding collection of reflections and thoughts on life and love, the bad and the good. And what it is to be a woman. If anything, I thank her for that.
I definitely intend to pick up this book again in 10 or 20 years and hopefully then I'll understand what I'm not capable of grasping now.
And I can't wait.
"Forget that loser. Just tell me who's buying, who's paying;
Christ but I'm thirsty, and I want to tell you something,
come close I want to whisper it, to pour
the words burning into you, the same words for each one of you,
listen, it's simple, I'm saying it now, while I'm still sober,
while I'm not about to weep bitterly into my own glass,
while you're still here - don't go yet, stay, stay,
give me your shoulder to lean against, steady me, don't let me drop
I'm so in love with you I can't stand up."
March 14, 2018
Addonizio is like the feminine equivalent of Bukowski.. This analogy came up to my mind even before I fell on the title of her autobiographical pieces in Bukowski In A Sundress.. Probably it’s because of the booze and the explicit language in her writings. Actually, she defines herself as "Emily Dickinson with a strap-on" and she get drunk at poetry conferences.
With the frequent employment of bold expressions and smutty imagery in her poems, Addonizio sounds vicious, eccentric, brash, depressive and fragile, upfront at times, but never pretentious..
https://goo.gl/images/Asl9Xg
The first time I looked at her pictures, I saw a tattooed badass biker in a black leather jacket.. a woman with a gothic adolescent appearance that refuses to grow up.. That’s to say that I was confused and didn't know what to expect.
However, these poems has revealed how idiosyncratically beautiful Addonizio is: charismatic when defiantly confronting the stereotypes, intriguing, sexy, dark, 'entière' (a french adjective to describe a frank person that doesn’t care to hide his imperfections) and witty..
I liked her because she writes 'avec ses tripes' (i think the equivalent of this expression in English is “from his guts”).
In my journey of reading poetic texts (and believe me I have read a lot, mostly in Arabic though) I have come to the conviction that the honesty, the integrity and the 'authenticity' of the author are mirrored in his texts, and are as important as his writing skills (that's why I hate every spurious moralistic sentence ever written by Coelho and al. )..
Addonizio is one of those passionate poets who write so they won't die.
According to an article in The Guardian, Addonizio wouldn’t hesitate sometimes to use unusual and unacademic devices and methods to teach the poetic terms to her students:
Call someone a douche bag and you’re using metonymy. Tell him he’s an asshole; that’s synecdoche.
(LOL)
This hilarious educational methodology reminded me of my father when, one day, he was teaching grammar to my little brother who was having a hard time to learn at school how to conjugate a verb in the 'Muthanna' form in the Arabic grammar.. Desperate, he used the words Fuck and Bitch in the exercises and it has worked as magic..
Speaking of the F word, here is an excerpt of her poem titled Fuck from her collection What Is This Thing Called Love
There are people who will tell you that using the word fuck in a poem indicates a serious lapse of taste, or imagination,
or both. It’s vulgar, indecorous, an obscenity that crashes down like an anvil falling through a skylight
to land on a restaurant table, on the white linen, the cut-glass vase of lilacs.
Far from being murky and abstract, her poems are accessible for the simplicity and the directness of her language. So accessible that I rarely had to open the dictionary, and that is exceptional specially when I read poetry.
Her eccentric personality is mirrored in her poems that reveal an unflinching sincerity and an acerbic wit, her strengths and weaknesses, her painful memories, her unfulfilled desires.. Some of the poems are reflexive upon her disillusions and deceptions in the past. They exude an air of melancholy and isolation, where Addonizzio delves into the essence of grief and solitude..
Like the intimate photographs of Nan Goldin (I was lucky to attend her huge retrospective in Paris in 2007 after winning her well deserved prestigious international prize), Addonizio incorporates her personal experiences into the poems : the loss of her friends, her relationships, her affection to her daughter, the single parenting, the sickness of her mother..
The poems tackle a raw of issues and deals with themes we encounter in the daily life; love, divorce, death, solitude, parenthood.. they are sort of vignettes that capture details of reality.
The 'I' might imply the egocentrism of the poet, but at no point Addonizio appears to be self-centered or self-indulgent. She frequently employs the second person narrative as to identify herself with the reader, allowing her personal truths to resonate within his/her own experience.
This short video inspired by the poem Creased Map of the Underworld, from her collection My Black Angel: Blues Poems & Portraits, is amazing.
In a touching scene, minimalist and simple as is her poetry, death is visually illustrated while the poem is recited
https://vimeo.com/129687787
Nothing is so beautiful as death,
thinks Death: stilled lark on the lawn,
its twiggy legs drawn up, squashed blossoms
of skunks and opossums on the freeway,
dog that drags itself trembling down
the front porch step, and stops
in a black-gummed grimace
before toppling into the poppies.
The ugly poppies. In Afghanistan
they are again made beautiful
by a mysterious blight. Ugly
are the arriving American soldiers, newly shorn
and checking their email,
but beautiful when face-up in the road
or their parts scattered
like bullet- or sprinkler-spray
or stellar remains. Lovely
is the nearly expired star
casting its mass into outer space,
lovelier the supernova
tearing itself apart
or collapsing like Lana Turner
in Frank O’Hara’s poem.
Nothing is so beautiful as a poem
except maybe a nightingale,
thinks the poet writing about death,
sinking Lethe-wards. Lovely river
in which the names are carefully entered.
In this quadrant are the rivers of grief and fire.
Grid north. Black azimuth.
Down rivers of Fuck yous and orchids
steer lit hearts in little boats
gamely making their way,
spinning and flaming, flaming
and spiraling, always down--
down, the most beautiful of the directions.
As I previously said, her poems are intimately related to her private life. The thoughts, impressions, visions and feelings that Addonizio openly shares with us are autobiographical.
Through the verses, we get the impression of knowing her up close and personal.. Reading becomes like an act of voyeurism as if we, readers, are sneaking up on her, stalking her and spying on her private life. Therefore It was evident for me to categorize her lyrical poems as Confessional.
However, I learned when I read her interview that she thinks of this term as a "curse", and her argument is convincing: she transforms and even lies about some of those experiences. “I killed my mother before she died,” Addonzio writes, in an essay that lists all the times she changed the facts to suit a poem.
(https://www.google.com.lb/amp/s/amp.t...)
For Desire is my favourite poem out of this collection. I liked the direct tone and the frank expression (i.e. the repetition of "I want") of her erotic thoughts and fantasies; the euphemism; her allusions and references to the Christian morals and the antagonism with her frustration and her repressed appetite for sex; the multiplicity of her inner voices..
Give me the strongest cheese, the one that stinks best;
and I want the good wine, the swirl in crystal
surrendering the bruised scent of blackberries,
or cherries, the rich spurt in the back
of the throat, the holding it there before swallowing.
Give me the lover who yanks open the door
of his house and presses me to the wall
in the dim hallway, and keeps me there until I'm drenched
and shaking, whose kisses arrive by the boatload
and begin their delicious diaspora
through the cities and small towns of my body.
To hell with the saints, with martyrs
of my childhood meant to instruct me
in the power of endurance and faith,
to hell with the next world and its pallid angels
swooning and sighing like Victorian girls.
I want this world. I want to walk into
the ocean and feel it trying to drag me along
like I'm nothing but a broken bit of scratched glass,
and I want to resist it. I want to go
staggering and flailing my way
through the bars and back rooms,
through the gleaming hotels and weedy
lots of abandoned sunflowers and the parks where dogs are let off their leashes
in spite of the signs, where they sniff each
other and roll together in the grass, I want to lie down somewhere and suffer for love until it nearly kills me, and then I want to get up again
and put on that little black dress and wait
for you, yes you, to come over here
and get down on your knees and tell me
just how fucking good I look
(*) I have read Addinizio's poems in English and Arabic (An Anthology gathering 60 poems is translated by the Lebanese poet Samer Abou Hawash; Al-Kamel Verlag, 2009).
With the frequent employment of bold expressions and smutty imagery in her poems, Addonizio sounds vicious, eccentric, brash, depressive and fragile, upfront at times, but never pretentious..
https://goo.gl/images/Asl9Xg
The first time I looked at her pictures, I saw a tattooed badass biker in a black leather jacket.. a woman with a gothic adolescent appearance that refuses to grow up.. That’s to say that I was confused and didn't know what to expect.
However, these poems has revealed how idiosyncratically beautiful Addonizio is: charismatic when defiantly confronting the stereotypes, intriguing, sexy, dark, 'entière' (a french adjective to describe a frank person that doesn’t care to hide his imperfections) and witty..
I liked her because she writes 'avec ses tripes' (i think the equivalent of this expression in English is “from his guts”).
In my journey of reading poetic texts (and believe me I have read a lot, mostly in Arabic though) I have come to the conviction that the honesty, the integrity and the 'authenticity' of the author are mirrored in his texts, and are as important as his writing skills (that's why I hate every spurious moralistic sentence ever written by Coelho and al. )..
Addonizio is one of those passionate poets who write so they won't die.
According to an article in The Guardian, Addonizio wouldn’t hesitate sometimes to use unusual and unacademic devices and methods to teach the poetic terms to her students:
Call someone a douche bag and you’re using metonymy. Tell him he’s an asshole; that’s synecdoche.
(LOL)
This hilarious educational methodology reminded me of my father when, one day, he was teaching grammar to my little brother who was having a hard time to learn at school how to conjugate a verb in the 'Muthanna' form in the Arabic grammar.. Desperate, he used the words Fuck and Bitch in the exercises and it has worked as magic..
Speaking of the F word, here is an excerpt of her poem titled Fuck from her collection What Is This Thing Called Love
There are people who will tell you that using the word fuck in a poem indicates a serious lapse of taste, or imagination,
or both. It’s vulgar, indecorous, an obscenity that crashes down like an anvil falling through a skylight
to land on a restaurant table, on the white linen, the cut-glass vase of lilacs.
Far from being murky and abstract, her poems are accessible for the simplicity and the directness of her language. So accessible that I rarely had to open the dictionary, and that is exceptional specially when I read poetry.
Her eccentric personality is mirrored in her poems that reveal an unflinching sincerity and an acerbic wit, her strengths and weaknesses, her painful memories, her unfulfilled desires.. Some of the poems are reflexive upon her disillusions and deceptions in the past. They exude an air of melancholy and isolation, where Addonizzio delves into the essence of grief and solitude..
Like the intimate photographs of Nan Goldin (I was lucky to attend her huge retrospective in Paris in 2007 after winning her well deserved prestigious international prize), Addonizio incorporates her personal experiences into the poems : the loss of her friends, her relationships, her affection to her daughter, the single parenting, the sickness of her mother..
The poems tackle a raw of issues and deals with themes we encounter in the daily life; love, divorce, death, solitude, parenthood.. they are sort of vignettes that capture details of reality.
The 'I' might imply the egocentrism of the poet, but at no point Addonizio appears to be self-centered or self-indulgent. She frequently employs the second person narrative as to identify herself with the reader, allowing her personal truths to resonate within his/her own experience.
This short video inspired by the poem Creased Map of the Underworld, from her collection My Black Angel: Blues Poems & Portraits, is amazing.
In a touching scene, minimalist and simple as is her poetry, death is visually illustrated while the poem is recited
https://vimeo.com/129687787
Nothing is so beautiful as death,
thinks Death: stilled lark on the lawn,
its twiggy legs drawn up, squashed blossoms
of skunks and opossums on the freeway,
dog that drags itself trembling down
the front porch step, and stops
in a black-gummed grimace
before toppling into the poppies.
The ugly poppies. In Afghanistan
they are again made beautiful
by a mysterious blight. Ugly
are the arriving American soldiers, newly shorn
and checking their email,
but beautiful when face-up in the road
or their parts scattered
like bullet- or sprinkler-spray
or stellar remains. Lovely
is the nearly expired star
casting its mass into outer space,
lovelier the supernova
tearing itself apart
or collapsing like Lana Turner
in Frank O’Hara’s poem.
Nothing is so beautiful as a poem
except maybe a nightingale,
thinks the poet writing about death,
sinking Lethe-wards. Lovely river
in which the names are carefully entered.
In this quadrant are the rivers of grief and fire.
Grid north. Black azimuth.
Down rivers of Fuck yous and orchids
steer lit hearts in little boats
gamely making their way,
spinning and flaming, flaming
and spiraling, always down--
down, the most beautiful of the directions.
As I previously said, her poems are intimately related to her private life. The thoughts, impressions, visions and feelings that Addonizio openly shares with us are autobiographical.
Through the verses, we get the impression of knowing her up close and personal.. Reading becomes like an act of voyeurism as if we, readers, are sneaking up on her, stalking her and spying on her private life. Therefore It was evident for me to categorize her lyrical poems as Confessional.
However, I learned when I read her interview that she thinks of this term as a "curse", and her argument is convincing: she transforms and even lies about some of those experiences. “I killed my mother before she died,” Addonzio writes, in an essay that lists all the times she changed the facts to suit a poem.
(https://www.google.com.lb/amp/s/amp.t...)
For Desire is my favourite poem out of this collection. I liked the direct tone and the frank expression (i.e. the repetition of "I want") of her erotic thoughts and fantasies; the euphemism; her allusions and references to the Christian morals and the antagonism with her frustration and her repressed appetite for sex; the multiplicity of her inner voices..
Give me the strongest cheese, the one that stinks best;
and I want the good wine, the swirl in crystal
surrendering the bruised scent of blackberries,
or cherries, the rich spurt in the back
of the throat, the holding it there before swallowing.
Give me the lover who yanks open the door
of his house and presses me to the wall
in the dim hallway, and keeps me there until I'm drenched
and shaking, whose kisses arrive by the boatload
and begin their delicious diaspora
through the cities and small towns of my body.
To hell with the saints, with martyrs
of my childhood meant to instruct me
in the power of endurance and faith,
to hell with the next world and its pallid angels
swooning and sighing like Victorian girls.
I want this world. I want to walk into
the ocean and feel it trying to drag me along
like I'm nothing but a broken bit of scratched glass,
and I want to resist it. I want to go
staggering and flailing my way
through the bars and back rooms,
through the gleaming hotels and weedy
lots of abandoned sunflowers and the parks where dogs are let off their leashes
in spite of the signs, where they sniff each
other and roll together in the grass, I want to lie down somewhere and suffer for love until it nearly kills me, and then I want to get up again
and put on that little black dress and wait
for you, yes you, to come over here
and get down on your knees and tell me
just how fucking good I look
(*) I have read Addinizio's poems in English and Arabic (An Anthology gathering 60 poems is translated by the Lebanese poet Samer Abou Hawash; Al-Kamel Verlag, 2009).
April 17, 2007
Kim Addonizio was one of my grad school advisors, and she is as hip, irreverent, direct, and passionate as her poetry. This collection is great, with "What Women Want" as my starred selection in it.
April 6, 2011
Addonizio, Kim. "Tell Me". BOA Editions, Ltd. Rochester, NY: 2000.
Kim Addonizio’s collection of poetry within her book “Tell Me” revolve around the concept of self inspection. Throughout each piece, Addonizio seems to be making an attempt at finding and scrutinizing herself, while at the same time writing about common themes others can connect with. Some of the most prevalent topics in this book include heartbreak, jealously, depression, and alcoholism. The level of depth Addonizio goes through in her poems almost makes the reader feel as though he or she has experienced a barroom breakdown or qualms about an ex lover. Regardless of the subject, each poem within “Tell Me” begs to be read and interest the audience in Addonizio’s whirlwind of a life. It’s almost impossible for me to choose a favorite poem out of this collection so I will briefly touch upon my top three: “Intimacy”, “Collapsing Poem”, and “’What Do Women Want?’”.
Addonizio’s “Intimacy” revolves around a woman who is constantly irked with the sight of her current beau’s ex girlfriend at a local café. Throughout the poem, the narrator talks of her jealously and the nagging doubt that has risen within her mind even since she laid eyes on this woman. Addonizio presents this scenario in a way that is relatable to the reader by bringing up her past love and how she will never be able to forget his touch even if she is with her current. Many people have uncertainties within relationships and fall back on the comforting past in order to get by troubled times, just as the woman in this poem is explaining.
If I had to choose the most fascinating and attention grabbing poem I would go with her “Collapsing Poem.” The story within the piece is about a woman who is bawling in front of a steadfast man. The drunkenness of the woman is addressed, as is the fact that she is using physical violence against the man in attempts to persuade him to let her inside the house. While one may think this is just another monotonous lover’s quarrel, what makes it interesting is the fact that halfway through, Addonizio begins concentrating on the reader. She writes, “And by now, if you’ve been moved, it’s because/you’re thinking with regret of the person/this poem set out to remind you of,” in order to get into the reader’s mind and connect with them. Another thing I loved about this poem is how the title relates to the poem so well. The story is about a pathetic sort of woman, throwing herself and eventually deconstructing herself in front of a man she must have loved. The collapsing of her inner stability is shown through her barraging of her male counterpart.
In terms of connecting with a poem “’What Do Women Want?’” is one that I would have to say drew me in from the first lines. The poem talks of a woman wanting a red dress so she can feel sexy and liberated in a male dominant world. She wants to be able to turn heads and break hearts like so many before her have achieved. I found myself lost within this poem because it has so many different layers to it. For instance, one can extract that Addonizio might have been touching on past insecurities of never feeling good enough until she found that one thing that caused her to stand out from the rest. The word choice and figurative language within the poem is so brilliant as well. Addonizio writes, “I’ll wear it like bones, like skin,” as a simile for how often she’ll encase herself within the dress. The chilling emotion of this poem is utterly fantastic and the stylistic elements contribute extremely well.
“Tell Me” is one of the most captive books I’ve ever lay my eyes on. Addonizio’s use of relevant topics allows readers to become caught up in the captivating pieces long after they are read. The honesty that Addonizio has placed within her poems is something that writers and readers alike can take notes of and learn from. I have absolutely no regrets in me after reading this book and am extremely glad I found it.
Kim Addonizio’s collection of poetry within her book “Tell Me” revolve around the concept of self inspection. Throughout each piece, Addonizio seems to be making an attempt at finding and scrutinizing herself, while at the same time writing about common themes others can connect with. Some of the most prevalent topics in this book include heartbreak, jealously, depression, and alcoholism. The level of depth Addonizio goes through in her poems almost makes the reader feel as though he or she has experienced a barroom breakdown or qualms about an ex lover. Regardless of the subject, each poem within “Tell Me” begs to be read and interest the audience in Addonizio’s whirlwind of a life. It’s almost impossible for me to choose a favorite poem out of this collection so I will briefly touch upon my top three: “Intimacy”, “Collapsing Poem”, and “’What Do Women Want?’”.
Addonizio’s “Intimacy” revolves around a woman who is constantly irked with the sight of her current beau’s ex girlfriend at a local café. Throughout the poem, the narrator talks of her jealously and the nagging doubt that has risen within her mind even since she laid eyes on this woman. Addonizio presents this scenario in a way that is relatable to the reader by bringing up her past love and how she will never be able to forget his touch even if she is with her current. Many people have uncertainties within relationships and fall back on the comforting past in order to get by troubled times, just as the woman in this poem is explaining.
If I had to choose the most fascinating and attention grabbing poem I would go with her “Collapsing Poem.” The story within the piece is about a woman who is bawling in front of a steadfast man. The drunkenness of the woman is addressed, as is the fact that she is using physical violence against the man in attempts to persuade him to let her inside the house. While one may think this is just another monotonous lover’s quarrel, what makes it interesting is the fact that halfway through, Addonizio begins concentrating on the reader. She writes, “And by now, if you’ve been moved, it’s because/you’re thinking with regret of the person/this poem set out to remind you of,” in order to get into the reader’s mind and connect with them. Another thing I loved about this poem is how the title relates to the poem so well. The story is about a pathetic sort of woman, throwing herself and eventually deconstructing herself in front of a man she must have loved. The collapsing of her inner stability is shown through her barraging of her male counterpart.
In terms of connecting with a poem “’What Do Women Want?’” is one that I would have to say drew me in from the first lines. The poem talks of a woman wanting a red dress so she can feel sexy and liberated in a male dominant world. She wants to be able to turn heads and break hearts like so many before her have achieved. I found myself lost within this poem because it has so many different layers to it. For instance, one can extract that Addonizio might have been touching on past insecurities of never feeling good enough until she found that one thing that caused her to stand out from the rest. The word choice and figurative language within the poem is so brilliant as well. Addonizio writes, “I’ll wear it like bones, like skin,” as a simile for how often she’ll encase herself within the dress. The chilling emotion of this poem is utterly fantastic and the stylistic elements contribute extremely well.
“Tell Me” is one of the most captive books I’ve ever lay my eyes on. Addonizio’s use of relevant topics allows readers to become caught up in the captivating pieces long after they are read. The honesty that Addonizio has placed within her poems is something that writers and readers alike can take notes of and learn from. I have absolutely no regrets in me after reading this book and am extremely glad I found it.
April 26, 2021
People say that the nature of truth changes with perception just like light and shadow but this collection, in all truth, is one of the best collection out in this barren world. No matter from where you see it, from top or bottom, from this side to that, it wouldn’t change. It will remain the best or atleast one of the best. The poems here are filled with longing, with sadness and heartbreak, with inevitable nature of love, all this dipped in the glasses of beer and whiskey and wine and you stagger through it like drunkards and when you have swallowed everything and passed out because of the intensity of its intoxication, you wake up next morning with a slight heartache and an emptiness in your mouth that asks for another glass.
December 29, 2022
My new favourite poet. Phenomenal. I am blown away. Finally, a poet that is timeless.
November 25, 2020
If you want a helpful and well-written review of this book, check out David Schaafsma's.
The following is another piece of my 2020 Personal Pandemic Project: using poets' repetitions to make my own repoesy.
The following is another piece of my 2020 Personal Pandemic Project: using poets' repetitions to make my own repoesy.
Paper or Plastic II
i served and this
nothing alarms
you and begins
to tell me on
what you stay
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
if you'd like to make your own...
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
wham|
wham|
I|
I|
I|
you|
you|
this|
nothing|
paper or plastic|
alarms|
stay|
tell me|
served and| {or, and served}
begins and| {or, and begins}
to|
on what|
July 5, 2012
. Stunning poems filled with passion and terrifyingly accurate images. Addonizio is a stellar voice. Her “What Women Want” is well known, but some of the others such as “Last Call” rank right up there.
October 5, 2016
Addonizio writes it like no other! I fell into every poem and took it in through my life. That is as good as it gets! I will read everything she ever writes!!!! LOVE!
August 15, 2025
“this is a eulogy for the things that don’t happen, for the stillborn, / the unstamped passport, the ring given back or pawned, or simply / tossed / into a drawer with the final papers”
The variety of these is excellent and the language is compelling and beautiful. “The Numbers” is such a powerful opener. At times the length of the poems had my mind wandering and I had to redirect my thoughts (and reread) often, but the lines that grounded throughout were great enough that it didn’t spoil the experience.
I read and talked in a review about Ada Limon’s “The Raincoat” as one of the most important poems on mothers and daughters. “The Moment” is undoubtedly now among the ranks as well. Heartbreaking and profound yet ending on a cheerful note—which can often feel cheesy or forced as a wrap-up, but here it was seamless.
Sex is written from a derealized and distanced lens and somehow retains its authority on closeness. I can’t decide between “Intimacy” and “One-Night Stands” as favorites of this theme. As well as “Affair,” with one of my favorite ending lines I’ve read all year (aren’t you that kind of / woman?) “Aliens,” and “Like That”.
“What Do Women Want?” was taught in my most recent advanced poetry course. It is highlighted in its entirety on my Ebook. I’ve talked also, recently, about poems I feel are perfect. This poem is perfect. A resounding yes all over. I had forgotten who the author was and nearly jumped when I flipped to the page.
I also love:
“Garbage”
“Things That Don’t Happen”
“Ranchos de Taos, August”
4.5 ⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️ rounded up to ⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️
The variety of these is excellent and the language is compelling and beautiful. “The Numbers” is such a powerful opener. At times the length of the poems had my mind wandering and I had to redirect my thoughts (and reread) often, but the lines that grounded throughout were great enough that it didn’t spoil the experience.
I read and talked in a review about Ada Limon’s “The Raincoat” as one of the most important poems on mothers and daughters. “The Moment” is undoubtedly now among the ranks as well. Heartbreaking and profound yet ending on a cheerful note—which can often feel cheesy or forced as a wrap-up, but here it was seamless.
Sex is written from a derealized and distanced lens and somehow retains its authority on closeness. I can’t decide between “Intimacy” and “One-Night Stands” as favorites of this theme. As well as “Affair,” with one of my favorite ending lines I’ve read all year (aren’t you that kind of / woman?) “Aliens,” and “Like That”.
“What Do Women Want?” was taught in my most recent advanced poetry course. It is highlighted in its entirety on my Ebook. I’ve talked also, recently, about poems I feel are perfect. This poem is perfect. A resounding yes all over. I had forgotten who the author was and nearly jumped when I flipped to the page.
I also love:
“Garbage”
“Things That Don’t Happen”
“Ranchos de Taos, August”
4.5 ⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️ rounded up to ⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️
October 29, 2024
What I find most appealing in this collection is the raw, unvarnished directness. "Poems of loneliness and late nights, liquor and loss," As the description aptly puts it, distills the outline of her work: a miserable, bruised landscape of alcohol, sex, devastation, and an insatiable hunger for love. Noting that gut-punch first line from Phantom Anniversary: "Imagine the marriage lasting."
The collection opens with a punch—The Numbers—a poem that feels universal: "How many prayers are there tonight, how many of us must stay awake and listen?" This seems like a powerful choice to start with, confronting us with the collective weight of silent suffering that all readers share—a world disintegrating with barely hope left, and the patience that God knows how long will last.
Glass, in particular, turns being drunk and miserable to something visceral: "Christ but I'm thirsty, and I want to tell you something, come close I want to whisper it… don’t go yet, stay, stay, give me your shoulder to lean against."
Addonizio's language floating between explicit and unapologetically vulnerable. She wrote, almost mercilessly, of those left wandering after loss, of those who yearns love in its most hollowed-out forms. Her work is a dark, jagged mirror to the lives of those in turmoil. Some parts, admittedly, are startling—almost unsettling in their directness.
"Because writing is lonely work, is what I'm trying to say."
The collection opens with a punch—The Numbers—a poem that feels universal: "How many prayers are there tonight, how many of us must stay awake and listen?" This seems like a powerful choice to start with, confronting us with the collective weight of silent suffering that all readers share—a world disintegrating with barely hope left, and the patience that God knows how long will last.
Glass, in particular, turns being drunk and miserable to something visceral: "Christ but I'm thirsty, and I want to tell you something, come close I want to whisper it… don’t go yet, stay, stay, give me your shoulder to lean against."
Addonizio's language floating between explicit and unapologetically vulnerable. She wrote, almost mercilessly, of those left wandering after loss, of those who yearns love in its most hollowed-out forms. Her work is a dark, jagged mirror to the lives of those in turmoil. Some parts, admittedly, are startling—almost unsettling in their directness.
"Because writing is lonely work, is what I'm trying to say."
June 15, 2021
What Do Women Want?
I want a red dress.
I want it flimsy and cheap,
I want it too tight, I want to wear it
until someone tears it off me.
I want it sleeveless and backless,
this dress, so no one has to guess
what’s underneath. I want to walk down
the street past Thrifty’s and the hardware store
with all those keys glittering in the window,
past Mr. and Mrs. Wong selling day-old
donuts in their café, past the Guerra brothers
slinging pigs from the truck and onto the dolly,
hoisting the slick snouts over their shoulders.
I want to walk like I’m the only
woman on earth and I can have my pick.
I want that red dress bad.
I want it to confirm
your worst fears about me,
to show you how little I care about you
or anything except what
I want. When I find it, I’ll pull that garment
from its hanger like I’m choosing a body
to carry me into this world, through
the birth-cries and the love-cries too,
and I’ll wear it like bones, like skin,
it’ll be the goddamned
dress they bury me in.
I want a red dress.
I want it flimsy and cheap,
I want it too tight, I want to wear it
until someone tears it off me.
I want it sleeveless and backless,
this dress, so no one has to guess
what’s underneath. I want to walk down
the street past Thrifty’s and the hardware store
with all those keys glittering in the window,
past Mr. and Mrs. Wong selling day-old
donuts in their café, past the Guerra brothers
slinging pigs from the truck and onto the dolly,
hoisting the slick snouts over their shoulders.
I want to walk like I’m the only
woman on earth and I can have my pick.
I want that red dress bad.
I want it to confirm
your worst fears about me,
to show you how little I care about you
or anything except what
I want. When I find it, I’ll pull that garment
from its hanger like I’m choosing a body
to carry me into this world, through
the birth-cries and the love-cries too,
and I’ll wear it like bones, like skin,
it’ll be the goddamned
dress they bury me in.
June 24, 2021
... oh god I feel
so desperately lonely is what I'm trying to say,
look at you you're so young all of you
I don't care about your poems, or my own,
do you know how fast it goes, all I want is to be
as young as all of you, look at you
you're so fucking clueless, oh I want
my life back, where did it go, I want it all to be
different, but I'm standing here, lecturing again--
on what, on what? Oh fuck it,
listen, I was a beautiful woman,
you think I want to be standing here, lecturing? Look again.
Listen, I'm trying to tell you.
****
My entire vibe this morning while teaching a slew of dewy eyed students. Their skin so damn smooth, they may as well have been carved from cream cheese. And me wishing it was Detroit 1998, when I too had all my shit together and had not surrendered to the allure of ergonomically correct shoes.
so desperately lonely is what I'm trying to say,
look at you you're so young all of you
I don't care about your poems, or my own,
do you know how fast it goes, all I want is to be
as young as all of you, look at you
you're so fucking clueless, oh I want
my life back, where did it go, I want it all to be
different, but I'm standing here, lecturing again--
on what, on what? Oh fuck it,
listen, I was a beautiful woman,
you think I want to be standing here, lecturing? Look again.
Listen, I'm trying to tell you.
****
My entire vibe this morning while teaching a slew of dewy eyed students. Their skin so damn smooth, they may as well have been carved from cream cheese. And me wishing it was Detroit 1998, when I too had all my shit together and had not surrendered to the allure of ergonomically correct shoes.
May 6, 2021
This is only the second book by Kim Addonizio I have read, and I loved this one as well. Some poets are a little too pretentious for my taste, but her writing is real, confessional, accessible, and so well expressed. Even if you haven’t walked in her shoes through much of what this book is about, she can pull you into her experience as if it were your own. And in those instances when you do relate first-hand, she certainly does them justice. I am eager to read more from her.
January 10, 2020
Considering this is my first taste of poetry for a very long time, this was astoundingly engaging.
February 7, 2021
Kim Addonizio is officially one of my favorite poets. This is her third book I have read and she keeps surprising me. She is extremely and unapologetically honest. She is ruthless with her word choices. Her imagery is vibrant and in your face. She speaks to the point but also with poetic prowess. You can feel the passion in the lines and the all encompassing sadness between them.
I haven't come across another poet yet that writes with such brutal and unforgiving honesty. I feel she is like a poetry rockstar. Her statements are bold and her observing eye is crass yet truthful.
Her work is also very accessible, not bogged down by too many rules. She seems freed from that and seemed to have allowed herself to go in any direction her heart speaks true. It's inspirational to me and if more poets wrote like her, I feel like poetry as a genre would be much more popular nowadays.
I haven't come across another poet yet that writes with such brutal and unforgiving honesty. I feel she is like a poetry rockstar. Her statements are bold and her observing eye is crass yet truthful.
Her work is also very accessible, not bogged down by too many rules. She seems freed from that and seemed to have allowed herself to go in any direction her heart speaks true. It's inspirational to me and if more poets wrote like her, I feel like poetry as a genre would be much more popular nowadays.
April 17, 2021
I absolutely loved this poetry collection. I was first introduced to Addonizio in my freshman college level poetry class, and I read some of her and Laux’s The Poet’s Companion in my college creative writing class that same year. However, this was my first poetry collection from her. I just really love her writing style and the rawness and beautiful language she uses to talk about loss, grief, sadness, sex, longing, and so much more. I really adored this and am looking forward to reading more poetry from her!
July 8, 2022
UGH THIS HAD SO MANY GOOD POEMS
July 22, 2024
Addonizio's poems are vibrant and filled with lewd imagery and language. Tell Me is an amazing read but the poems start to blur together 2/3 of the way through.
July 29, 2024
nothing makes me feel more SEEN as a WO. MAN. than this poetry book. just PERFECTION. oh and BY TW I DONT NORMALLY GIVE OUT HIGH STARS LIKE THIS.
May 22, 2021
“I tell my heart
to be patient, that joy returns,
but it doesn’t want to listen.
It wants to tell me
that the storm comes toward us,
heavy with each named grief,
and slams all the windows
in the empty house.”
brb, crying over the fact that i’ve never felt THIS Called Out and Known and Seen in a while.............
to be patient, that joy returns,
but it doesn’t want to listen.
It wants to tell me
that the storm comes toward us,
heavy with each named grief,
and slams all the windows
in the empty house.”
brb, crying over the fact that i’ve never felt THIS Called Out and Known and Seen in a while.............
February 23, 2024
The author is often likened to Charles Bukowski but I find Addonizio’s poems more accessible: full of the gritty and harsh realities of life but also full of tender moments.
July 26, 2023
A great collection of observational poems, simple and effective yet complex. Some poems seem like a mixture of poetry and prose so I'd love to read essays or novels by the author.
I'll definitely be checking out her other books soon.
I'll definitely be checking out her other books soon.
October 27, 2021
3.5. Kim Addonizio is a fairly formulaic poet. Read one of her poems and you’ve read many of them.
Her poems usually wander in a style reminiscent of Frank O’hara, then crescendo in the last few lines to a surprisingly powerful and satisfying conclusion. She writes a lot about urban life, drinking, aging, sex, and motherhood. Her poetry often presents melancholy as a kind of frenzy and malaise as the product of an incessant, unrestrained thirst. It’s gritty and accessible and loose. She reimagines Beat poetry (a male-dominated space) as a confessional style of feminist freedom. In this way her poems are political, even though they rarely discuss politics explicitly (Vietnam vet lovers withstanding.)
Taken one at a time, Addonizio’s poems can be completely absorbing and cathartic. There is a reason “To the Woman Crying Uncontrollably…” went viral a few years ago. Taken as a collection, it can get a bit old. This collection is no exception, and also has some dated allusions that are casually - and likely unintentionally- racist/insensitive/imperialist. I also wish she had more women in these poems, besides the occasional one about her mother or daughter and a (sadly often dehumanized) sex worker.
Still, I know about half the poems in this book (non-problematic ones) are pieces I’ll love coming back to as slice-of-life stand-alones.
Her poems usually wander in a style reminiscent of Frank O’hara, then crescendo in the last few lines to a surprisingly powerful and satisfying conclusion. She writes a lot about urban life, drinking, aging, sex, and motherhood. Her poetry often presents melancholy as a kind of frenzy and malaise as the product of an incessant, unrestrained thirst. It’s gritty and accessible and loose. She reimagines Beat poetry (a male-dominated space) as a confessional style of feminist freedom. In this way her poems are political, even though they rarely discuss politics explicitly (Vietnam vet lovers withstanding.)
Taken one at a time, Addonizio’s poems can be completely absorbing and cathartic. There is a reason “To the Woman Crying Uncontrollably…” went viral a few years ago. Taken as a collection, it can get a bit old. This collection is no exception, and also has some dated allusions that are casually - and likely unintentionally- racist/insensitive/imperialist. I also wish she had more women in these poems, besides the occasional one about her mother or daughter and a (sadly often dehumanized) sex worker.
Still, I know about half the poems in this book (non-problematic ones) are pieces I’ll love coming back to as slice-of-life stand-alones.
September 22, 2008
Poetry. This is a mix of prose poetry and free verse. I preferred the latter, as Addonizio's line breaks can bring a lot of tension to her writing, but all her pieces are sensuous, filled with little details that set the scene, whether it's meant to be sad or sexy, though she does sexy exceedingly well. Her style is spare, but layered. Very easy to read and re-read.
Lots of favorites in this one: Target; Night of the Living, Night of the Dead; The Revered Poet Instructs Her Students on the Importance of Revision; Beginning with His Body and Ending in a Small Town; Tell Me; "What Do Women Want?"; Leaving Song; Getting Older; Flood.
Lots of favorites in this one: Target; Night of the Living, Night of the Dead; The Revered Poet Instructs Her Students on the Importance of Revision; Beginning with His Body and Ending in a Small Town; Tell Me; "What Do Women Want?"; Leaving Song; Getting Older; Flood.
April 16, 2015
Pretty intense, gritty look at day to day life and the role alcohol can play in it, also how the effects of drinking on relationships. Kim Addonizio writes poetry from a feminine viewpoint, touching on her experiences as a mother, teacher, daughter, and friend. The sweetest poems are about her daughter, the most gritty about the bar scene. Most evoke strong emotions in empathy to the "moment" described. The poems use multi-layered meaning to provide the real turn in perspective that pushes them above just the moment to an experience about life.
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