Laure-Anne Bosselaar’s poems point out, direct, goad, ask questions of themselves, argue, accuse, alive within the lines. Form and repetition both reshape meaning and with each repeat gain emotional depth and strength. Like in “Birthday,” where reading the line “when the last leaves let go, let go,/have all let go…” you truly get the sense of leaves falling in bunches until the last leave gives, she takes daring chances throughout “A New Hunger,” stretching language, never taking the easy route to the core of an image, but also never making the reader struggle; the poems have an ease, and effortlessness that belies their potency, their seriousness of purpose and execution.
She writes from deep inside the poems. For instance near the end of “The River’s Mouth, The Boat, The Undertow,” we are “in the stoop’s cracks,” not on the stoop, sitting idly by as events take shape around us, but deeply engaged, whether we want to be or not, in that which is pulling us.
There is the vividness of longing, of regret, rooted to the physical; our own senses and our sense of place, of belonging to somewhere or someone. The images in her poems connect--if there is a song, we are clear what kind of song it is; she helps us hear the music, sad or not.
Her poems communicate the indelibility of experience; how hurts in the past echo even today, how suffering is shared, yet always intensely private and personal, and how, we all, though older than the child from the poem “Counted” have “already have lived long/enough for shadows to pencil [us] in…”