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What We Carry
Finalist, 1994 National Book Critics Circle Award for Poetry. Dorianne Laux's poetry is a poetry of risk; it goes to the very edge of extinction to find the hard facts that need to be sung. What We Carry includes poems of survival, poems of healing, poems of affirmation, and poems of celebration.
71 pages, Paperback
First published June 1, 1994
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About the author
Dorianne Laux
40 books620 followersDORIANNE LAUX’s most recent collection is Life On Earth. Only As The Day Is Long: New and Selected, was a finalist for the Pulitzer Prize. She is also author of The Book of Men (W.W. Norton) which won the Paterson Prize for Poetry. Her fourth book of poems, Facts about the Moon (W.W. Norton), is the recipient of the Oregon Book Award, chosen by Ai. It was also short-listed for the 2006 Lenore Marshall Poetry Prize for the most outstanding book of poems published in the United States and chosen by the Kansas City Star as a noteworthy book of 2005. A finalist for the National Book Critics' Circle Award, Laux is also author of three collections of poetry from BOA Editions, Awake (1990) introduced by Philip Levine, What We Carry (1994) and Smoke (2000). Red Dragonfly Press released The Book of Women in 2012. Co-author of The Poet's Companion, she’s the recipient of three Best American Poetry Prizes, a Pushcart Prize, two fellowships from The National Endowment for the Arts and a Guggenheim Fellowship. Her work has appeared in the Best of the American Poetry Review, The Norton Anthology of Contemporary Poetry, and she’s a frequent contributor to magazines as various as Tinhouse, Orion, Oxford American and Ms. Magazine. Laux has waited tables and written poems in San Diego, Los Angeles, Berkeley, and Petaluma, California, and as far north as Juneau, Alaska. She has taught poetry at the University of Oregon and is founding faculty at Pacific University’s Low Residency MFA Program. In 2008 she and her husband, poet Joseph Millar, moved to Raleigh where she directs the program In Creative Writing at North Carolina State University. She is founding faculty for Pacific University's Low Residency MFA Program.
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Displaying 1 - 30 of 79 reviews
December 4, 2020
No matter what the grief, its weight,
we are obliged to carry it.
We rise and gather momentum, the dull strength
that pushes us through crowds.
And then the young boy gives me directions
so avidly. A woman holds the glass door open,
waits patiently for my empty body to pass through.
All day this continues, each kindness
reaching towards another — a stranger
singing to no one as I pass on the path, trees
offering their blossoms, a retarded child
who lifts his almond eyes and smiles.
Somehow they always find me, seem even
to be waiting, determined to keep me
from myself, from the thing that calls to me
as it must have once called to them —
this temptation to step off the edge
and fall weightless, away from the world.
November 2, 2009
Hadn't read this in a dozen or more years (thanks again Boone), and it's hot-damn fantastic. Here's an excerpt from one of my favorites, "After Twelve Days of Rain," which you can hear her read here:
Today, pumping gas into my old car, I stood
hatless in the rain and the whole world
went silent--cars on the wet street
sliding past without sound, the attendant's
mouth opening and closing on air
as he walked from pump to pump, his footsteps
erased in the rain--nothing
but the tiny numbers in their square windows
rolling by my shoulder, the unstoppable seconds
gliding by as I stood at the Chevron,
balanced evenly on my two feet, a gas nozzle
gripped in my hand, my hair gathering rain.
And I saw it didn't matter
who had loved me or who I loved. I was alone.
The black oily asphalt, the slick beauty
of the Iranian attendant, the thickening
clouds--nothing was mine. And I understood
finally, after a semester of philosophy,
a thousand books of poetry, after death
and childbirth and the startled cries of men
who called out my name as they entered me,
I finally believed I was alone, felt it
in my actual, visceral heart, heard it echo
like a thin bell. And the sounds
came back, the slish of tires
and footsteps, all the delicate cargo
they carried saying thank you
and yes. So I paid and climbed into my car
as if nothing had happened--
as if everything mattered--What else could I do?
Today, pumping gas into my old car, I stood
hatless in the rain and the whole world
went silent--cars on the wet street
sliding past without sound, the attendant's
mouth opening and closing on air
as he walked from pump to pump, his footsteps
erased in the rain--nothing
but the tiny numbers in their square windows
rolling by my shoulder, the unstoppable seconds
gliding by as I stood at the Chevron,
balanced evenly on my two feet, a gas nozzle
gripped in my hand, my hair gathering rain.
And I saw it didn't matter
who had loved me or who I loved. I was alone.
The black oily asphalt, the slick beauty
of the Iranian attendant, the thickening
clouds--nothing was mine. And I understood
finally, after a semester of philosophy,
a thousand books of poetry, after death
and childbirth and the startled cries of men
who called out my name as they entered me,
I finally believed I was alone, felt it
in my actual, visceral heart, heard it echo
like a thin bell. And the sounds
came back, the slish of tires
and footsteps, all the delicate cargo
they carried saying thank you
and yes. So I paid and climbed into my car
as if nothing had happened--
as if everything mattered--What else could I do?
July 12, 2021
Mēs esam tas, ko nesam sevī. Ko mēs nesam sevī? Dzīvi, domas, emocijas, ikdienu, iedomātas un īstas attiecības? Visam pa vidu ir sadzīve, kuru dzīvojot, reizēm izkrīt no prāta kāda šķietami izcila dzejas rinda. Dievs ar viņu. Labi, ka ir dzejnieki, kas nes savu nepazaudēto, no prāta neizkritušo dzeju. Doriana Loksa ir man ļoti tuva dzejniece. Prieks, ka esmu viņu sev atklājusi.
February 21, 2013
Tender, unflinching attention.
Two of my favorites from this collection are Aphasia and Enough Music.
Aphasia
for Honeya
After the stroke all she could say
was Venezuela, pointing to the pitcher
with its bright blue rim, her one word
command. And when she drank the clear
water in and gave the glass back,
it was Venezuela again, gratitude,
maybe, or the word now simply
a sigh, like the sky in the window,
the pillows a cloudy definition
propped beneath her head. Pink roses
dying on the bedside table, each fallen
petal a scrap in the shape of a country
she'd never been to, had never once
expressed interest in, and now
it was everywhere, in the peach
she lifted, dripping, to her lips,
the white tissue in the box, her brooding
children when they came to visit,
baptized with their new name
after each kiss. And at night
she whispered it, dark narcotic
in her husbands ear as he bent
to listen, her hands fumbling
at her buttons, her breasts,
holding them up to the light
like a gift. Venezuela, she said.
Enough Music
Sometimes, when we're on a long drive,
and we've talked enough and listened
to enough music and stopped twice,
once to eat, once to see the view,
we fall into this rhythm of silence.
It swings back and forth between us
like a rope over a lake.
Maybe it's what we don't say
that saves us.
Two of my favorites from this collection are Aphasia and Enough Music.
Aphasia
for Honeya
After the stroke all she could say
was Venezuela, pointing to the pitcher
with its bright blue rim, her one word
command. And when she drank the clear
water in and gave the glass back,
it was Venezuela again, gratitude,
maybe, or the word now simply
a sigh, like the sky in the window,
the pillows a cloudy definition
propped beneath her head. Pink roses
dying on the bedside table, each fallen
petal a scrap in the shape of a country
she'd never been to, had never once
expressed interest in, and now
it was everywhere, in the peach
she lifted, dripping, to her lips,
the white tissue in the box, her brooding
children when they came to visit,
baptized with their new name
after each kiss. And at night
she whispered it, dark narcotic
in her husbands ear as he bent
to listen, her hands fumbling
at her buttons, her breasts,
holding them up to the light
like a gift. Venezuela, she said.
Enough Music
Sometimes, when we're on a long drive,
and we've talked enough and listened
to enough music and stopped twice,
once to eat, once to see the view,
we fall into this rhythm of silence.
It swings back and forth between us
like a rope over a lake.
Maybe it's what we don't say
that saves us.
August 4, 2014
It's no accident an Edward Hopper painting graces the cover if What We Carry. Laux writes as Hopper paints, using stark words and lovingly documented images to illuminate the beauty of the mundane, the working class.
Each section contains a different point of view, the first, the aging single empty nester, the woman who has lived her life and is now satisfied in the empty quiet. The second melds the mother and daughter, childhood painted from both points of view. The last is the lover, the wife.
There is much to love here and little to disagree with. I think my one complaint would be the few poems that don't seem to go anywhere, that seem stuck in, for example "Each Sound" at the end if the Small Gods section.
Each section contains a different point of view, the first, the aging single empty nester, the woman who has lived her life and is now satisfied in the empty quiet. The second melds the mother and daughter, childhood painted from both points of view. The last is the lover, the wife.
There is much to love here and little to disagree with. I think my one complaint would be the few poems that don't seem to go anywhere, that seem stuck in, for example "Each Sound" at the end if the Small Gods section.
April 11, 2019
I think I stumbled across this by googling “poets similar to Sharon Olds” and it did not disappoint. I slowly broke away from that connection the further I delved into the collection, though, and by the end their similarities seemed rather superficial – white ladies of a certain age who write lines of similar length. Yes, they both write about family and sex, but what poet doesn’t? Laux also has a touch of the celestial in her poems (and not in an empty, new-agey sort of way). A few sort of fizzled out at the end, a few even seemed selfish and pointless, but several sent shivers down my spine, and most had at least some little pearl to offer. I’ve missed reading poetry. Favorites: “2AM”, “The Aqueduct”, “This Close”, “After Twelve Days of Rain”
August 28, 2018
Although this collection is almost 25 years old, it doesn't seem dated in the slightest. These are straightforward narrative poems, but all of them are so good. Maybe part of it is that Laux was almost exactly the same age when she wrote these poems as I am now, but they really spoke to me.
The book is divided into three sections. The first is poems of the self and what we do when we are alone with no one looking. The second is poems about parents and children. The third is poems about love and sex. (This was my favorite section, as should surprise no one.) But my favorite poem of all is "Fast Gas," which you can read here: http://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems....
The book is divided into three sections. The first is poems of the self and what we do when we are alone with no one looking. The second is poems about parents and children. The third is poems about love and sex. (This was my favorite section, as should surprise no one.) But my favorite poem of all is "Fast Gas," which you can read here: http://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems....
September 9, 2009
I found Dorianne Laux and her amazing verse through three female friends here on GoodReads. This book, her second, includes some of my favorite Lauxes, such as "Aphasia" and "Graveyard at Hurd's Gulch."
Those poems are about the terrors of dementia and the peace of (someone else's) death. But her poems about love and/or sex are equally strong. For example, "This Close" ends with this lethal line:
If I loved you, being this close would kill me.
Those poems are about the terrors of dementia and the peace of (someone else's) death. But her poems about love and/or sex are equally strong. For example, "This Close" ends with this lethal line:
If I loved you, being this close would kill me.
February 18, 2017
Laux is my favorite contemporary female poet writing today. Her poems in this collection (as well as her other collections) are sensual, striking, and speak to the experiences of being a woman. Each poem is bold and astonishing, fueled by the pure, raw imagery. I often use her poems when teaching creative writing classes, and my students always respond with awe.
August 25, 2008
A hearbreaking and heartwarming book, all at once. Dorianne is one of my favorite poets - she tells the truth like no-one else, like your best friend at a sleepover and then you want her to tell them again. I re-read this book regularly.
April 10, 2018
Laux manages to balance a raw confessionalism with a scintillating gift for abstract to concrete comparison, so her poems open out into flights of sensual epiphany. In other words, she takes off the top of my head.
February 12, 2020
I laughed...I cried...I blushed and wanted a cigarette. From the sentimental (in a good way) "For My Daughter Who Loves Animanls," to the super-sexy "The Lovers," Laux is a joy to read. She'd be a friendly gateway into poetry for anyone who doesn't have a lot of experience with the genre.
July 27, 2007
I like her voice and the poems were sensuous.
October 21, 2008
I really like this woman's poetry. You don't have to like poetry to enjoy her work.
February 10, 2024
Beautiful poems in this book. I love her work.
November 22, 2011
A beautiful book by a big-hearted, generous woman.
April 30, 2024
Life given in meters quotients of diurnal life with a raunchy tone of inebriation
February 21, 2020
Wonderfully insightful, as are all of Ms. Laux's books are, and an inspiration to poets who appreciate the hard edged beauty of the everyday in poetry. This is the kind of truth tellingthat I love to read in poetry, and something I strive for in my own.
August 15, 2025
always loveeeeee reading a Dorianne Laux poetry collection <3
"I stand in my underwear in the trembling quiet, remembering my dream.
Something had been stolen from me, valueless and irreplaceable. Grease and grass blades
were stuck to the bottoms of my feet.
I was shaking and sweating. I had wanted
to kill them. The moon was a white dinner plate broken exactly in half. I saw myself as I was:
forty-one years old, standing on a slab
of cold concrete, a broom handle slipping
from my hands, my breasts bare, my hair on end, afraid of what I might do next."
- late October
"Someone spoke to me last night, told me the truth. Just a few words, but I recognized it.
I knew I should make myself get up, write it down, but it was late,
and I was exhausted from working all day in the garden, moving rocks. Now, I remember only the avor — not like food, sweet or sharp.
More like a ne powder, like dust. And I wasn’t elated or frightened, but simply rapt, aware.
That’s how it is sometimes —
God comes to your window,
all bright light and black wings, and you’re just too tired to open it."
- dust
"I don’t remember when I began to call everyone “sweetie,”
as if they were my daughters, my darlings, my little birds.
I have always loved too much,
or not enough. Last night
I read a poem about God and almost believed it — God sipping coee, smoking cherry tobacco. I’ve arrived
at a time in my life when I could believe almost anything.
Today, pumping gas into my old car, I stood
hatless in the rain and the whole world went silent — cars on the wet street sliding past without sound, the attendant’s mouth opening and closing on air
as he walked from pump to pump, his footsteps erased in the rain — nothing
but the tiny numbers in their square windows rolling by my shoulder, the unstoppable seconds gliding by as I stood at the Chevron,
balanced evenly on my two feet, a gas nozzle gripped in my hand, my hair gathering rain.
And I saw it didn’t matter
who had loved me or who I loved. I was alone. The black oily asphalt, the slick beauty
of the Iranian attendant, the thickening
clouds — nothing was mine. And I understood nally, after a semester of philosophy,
a thousand books of poetry, after death
and childbirth and the startled cries of men
who called out my name as they entered me,
I nally believed I was alone, felt it
in my actual, visceral heart, heard it echo
like a thin bell. And the sounds
came back, the slish of tires
and footsteps, all the delicate cargo
they carried saying thank you
and yes. So I paid and climbed into my car
as if nothing had happened —
as if everything mattered — What else could I do?
I drove to the grocery store
and bought wheat bread and milk, a candy bar wrapped in gold foil, smiled at the teenaged cashier
with the pimpled face and the plastic name plate pinned above her small breast, and knew her secret, her sweet fear — Little bird. Little darling. She handed me my change, my brown bag, a torn receipt, pushed the cash drawer in with her hip and smiled back."
- after twelve days of rain
"Everyone I love is still alive.
I know there is no God, no afterlife,
but there is this peace, the granite angel
with moss-covered wings whose face
I have grown to love, her sad smile
like that sadness we feel after sex,
those few delirious hours when we needed nothing but breath and esh, after we’ve own back
into ourselves, our imperfect heavy bodies, just before the terrible hunger returns."
- graveyard at Hurd's gulch
"We are friends. We are both lonely.
I never tell him about my father
so he doesn’t know that when I think of his — blue ashes in a cardboard box — I think
of my own, alive in a room
somewhere in Oregon, a woman
helping his worn body into bed, the same body that crushed my sister’s childhood, mine.
Maybe this wife kisses him
goodnight, tells him she loves him,
actually means it. This close to the end,
if he asked forgiveness, what could I say?
If I were handed my father’s ashes,
what would I do with them?
What body of water would be t
for his scattering? What ground?
It’s best when I think least. I listen
to my friend’s story without judgement
or surprise, taking it in as he takes in
the women, without question, simply a given,
as unexceptional as conversation between friends, the laughter and at each end
the relative comfort of silence."
- what we carry
"No matter what the grief, its weight,
we are obliged to carry it.
We rise and gather momentum, the dull strength that pushes us through crowds."
- for the sake of strangers
"At the high school football game, the boys
stroke their new muscles, the girls sweeten their lips with gloss that smells of bubblegum, candy cane,
or cinnamon. In pleated cheerleader skirts
they walk home with each other, practicing yells, their long bare legs forming in the dark.
Under the arched eld lights a girl
in a velvet prom dress stands near the chainlink,
a cone of roses held between her breasts.
Her lanky father, in a corduroy suit, leans
against the fence. While they talk, she slips a foot
in and out of a new white pump, ngers the weave of her French braid, the glittering earrings.
They could be a couple on their rst date, she,
a little shy, he, trying to impress her
with his casual stance. This is the moment
when she learns what she will love: a warm night, the feel of nylon between her thighs, the ne hairs on her arms lifting when a breeze
sifts in through the bleachers, cars
igniting their engines, a man bending over her, smelling the owers pressed against her neck."
- homecoming
"We’ve forgotten the luxury of dumbness, how once we crouched naked on an outcrop of rock, the moon huge and untouched above us, speechless. Now we talk
about everything, incessantly,
our moans and grunts turned on a spit
into warm vowels and elegant consonants. We say plethora, demitasse, ozone and love. We think we know what each sound means. There are times when something so joyous or so horrible happens our only response
is an intake of breath, and then
we’re back at the truth of it,
that ball of life expanding
and exploding on impact, our heads,
our chests, filled with that first unspeakable light."
- each sound
"How was I to know
it would begin this way: every cell of my body burning with a dangerous beauty, the air around me a nimbus of light that would carry me
through the days, how when he found me,
weeks later, he would nd me like that
an ordinary woman who could rise
in ame, all he would have to do
is come close and touch me."
- fast gas
"And when she lifts her face he sees
where she’s gone, knows she can’t speak,
is traveling toward something essential,
toward the core of her need, so he simply watches, steadily, with an animal calm
as she arches and screams, watches the face that, if she could see it, she would never let him see."
- the lovers
"They are kissing,
long, deep, spacious kisses, exploring
the silence of the tongue, the mute
rungs of the upper palate, hungry
for the living esh. They are still
kissing when the cars crash and the bombs drop, when the babies are born crying
into the white air, when Mozart bends
to his bowl of soup and Stalin
bends to his garden. They are kissing
to begin the world again. Nothing
can stop them. They kiss until their lips swell, their thick tongues quickening
to the budded touch, licking up
the sweet juices. I want to believe
they are kissing to save the world,
but they’re not. All they know
is this press and need, these two-legged
beasts, their faces like roses crushed
together and opening, they are covering
their teeth, they are doing what they have to do to survive the worst, they are sealing
the hard words in, they are dying
for our sins. In a broken world they are practicing this simple and singular act
to perfection. They are holding
onto each other. They are kissing."
- kissing
"I stand in my underwear in the trembling quiet, remembering my dream.
Something had been stolen from me, valueless and irreplaceable. Grease and grass blades
were stuck to the bottoms of my feet.
I was shaking and sweating. I had wanted
to kill them. The moon was a white dinner plate broken exactly in half. I saw myself as I was:
forty-one years old, standing on a slab
of cold concrete, a broom handle slipping
from my hands, my breasts bare, my hair on end, afraid of what I might do next."
- late October
"Someone spoke to me last night, told me the truth. Just a few words, but I recognized it.
I knew I should make myself get up, write it down, but it was late,
and I was exhausted from working all day in the garden, moving rocks. Now, I remember only the avor — not like food, sweet or sharp.
More like a ne powder, like dust. And I wasn’t elated or frightened, but simply rapt, aware.
That’s how it is sometimes —
God comes to your window,
all bright light and black wings, and you’re just too tired to open it."
- dust
"I don’t remember when I began to call everyone “sweetie,”
as if they were my daughters, my darlings, my little birds.
I have always loved too much,
or not enough. Last night
I read a poem about God and almost believed it — God sipping coee, smoking cherry tobacco. I’ve arrived
at a time in my life when I could believe almost anything.
Today, pumping gas into my old car, I stood
hatless in the rain and the whole world went silent — cars on the wet street sliding past without sound, the attendant’s mouth opening and closing on air
as he walked from pump to pump, his footsteps erased in the rain — nothing
but the tiny numbers in their square windows rolling by my shoulder, the unstoppable seconds gliding by as I stood at the Chevron,
balanced evenly on my two feet, a gas nozzle gripped in my hand, my hair gathering rain.
And I saw it didn’t matter
who had loved me or who I loved. I was alone. The black oily asphalt, the slick beauty
of the Iranian attendant, the thickening
clouds — nothing was mine. And I understood nally, after a semester of philosophy,
a thousand books of poetry, after death
and childbirth and the startled cries of men
who called out my name as they entered me,
I nally believed I was alone, felt it
in my actual, visceral heart, heard it echo
like a thin bell. And the sounds
came back, the slish of tires
and footsteps, all the delicate cargo
they carried saying thank you
and yes. So I paid and climbed into my car
as if nothing had happened —
as if everything mattered — What else could I do?
I drove to the grocery store
and bought wheat bread and milk, a candy bar wrapped in gold foil, smiled at the teenaged cashier
with the pimpled face and the plastic name plate pinned above her small breast, and knew her secret, her sweet fear — Little bird. Little darling. She handed me my change, my brown bag, a torn receipt, pushed the cash drawer in with her hip and smiled back."
- after twelve days of rain
"Everyone I love is still alive.
I know there is no God, no afterlife,
but there is this peace, the granite angel
with moss-covered wings whose face
I have grown to love, her sad smile
like that sadness we feel after sex,
those few delirious hours when we needed nothing but breath and esh, after we’ve own back
into ourselves, our imperfect heavy bodies, just before the terrible hunger returns."
- graveyard at Hurd's gulch
"We are friends. We are both lonely.
I never tell him about my father
so he doesn’t know that when I think of his — blue ashes in a cardboard box — I think
of my own, alive in a room
somewhere in Oregon, a woman
helping his worn body into bed, the same body that crushed my sister’s childhood, mine.
Maybe this wife kisses him
goodnight, tells him she loves him,
actually means it. This close to the end,
if he asked forgiveness, what could I say?
If I were handed my father’s ashes,
what would I do with them?
What body of water would be t
for his scattering? What ground?
It’s best when I think least. I listen
to my friend’s story without judgement
or surprise, taking it in as he takes in
the women, without question, simply a given,
as unexceptional as conversation between friends, the laughter and at each end
the relative comfort of silence."
- what we carry
"No matter what the grief, its weight,
we are obliged to carry it.
We rise and gather momentum, the dull strength that pushes us through crowds."
- for the sake of strangers
"At the high school football game, the boys
stroke their new muscles, the girls sweeten their lips with gloss that smells of bubblegum, candy cane,
or cinnamon. In pleated cheerleader skirts
they walk home with each other, practicing yells, their long bare legs forming in the dark.
Under the arched eld lights a girl
in a velvet prom dress stands near the chainlink,
a cone of roses held between her breasts.
Her lanky father, in a corduroy suit, leans
against the fence. While they talk, she slips a foot
in and out of a new white pump, ngers the weave of her French braid, the glittering earrings.
They could be a couple on their rst date, she,
a little shy, he, trying to impress her
with his casual stance. This is the moment
when she learns what she will love: a warm night, the feel of nylon between her thighs, the ne hairs on her arms lifting when a breeze
sifts in through the bleachers, cars
igniting their engines, a man bending over her, smelling the owers pressed against her neck."
- homecoming
"We’ve forgotten the luxury of dumbness, how once we crouched naked on an outcrop of rock, the moon huge and untouched above us, speechless. Now we talk
about everything, incessantly,
our moans and grunts turned on a spit
into warm vowels and elegant consonants. We say plethora, demitasse, ozone and love. We think we know what each sound means. There are times when something so joyous or so horrible happens our only response
is an intake of breath, and then
we’re back at the truth of it,
that ball of life expanding
and exploding on impact, our heads,
our chests, filled with that first unspeakable light."
- each sound
"How was I to know
it would begin this way: every cell of my body burning with a dangerous beauty, the air around me a nimbus of light that would carry me
through the days, how when he found me,
weeks later, he would nd me like that
an ordinary woman who could rise
in ame, all he would have to do
is come close and touch me."
- fast gas
"And when she lifts her face he sees
where she’s gone, knows she can’t speak,
is traveling toward something essential,
toward the core of her need, so he simply watches, steadily, with an animal calm
as she arches and screams, watches the face that, if she could see it, she would never let him see."
- the lovers
"They are kissing,
long, deep, spacious kisses, exploring
the silence of the tongue, the mute
rungs of the upper palate, hungry
for the living esh. They are still
kissing when the cars crash and the bombs drop, when the babies are born crying
into the white air, when Mozart bends
to his bowl of soup and Stalin
bends to his garden. They are kissing
to begin the world again. Nothing
can stop them. They kiss until their lips swell, their thick tongues quickening
to the budded touch, licking up
the sweet juices. I want to believe
they are kissing to save the world,
but they’re not. All they know
is this press and need, these two-legged
beasts, their faces like roses crushed
together and opening, they are covering
their teeth, they are doing what they have to do to survive the worst, they are sealing
the hard words in, they are dying
for our sins. In a broken world they are practicing this simple and singular act
to perfection. They are holding
onto each other. They are kissing."
- kissing
March 24, 2012
Laux has somehow managed to capture the attention of my professor while impressing me only with an occasional line. It's not that she's bad; i mean, common, she's a professional poet. It's that she's not pithy or interesting or overt. It's like reading an endearing letter written by your grandmother: the voice is tempered and precise, but a little self-absorbed and myopic. Insofar as she succeeds at what she sets out to do, there can be no doubt. She is an artist at least in that sense. But she is not an artist in the way of invention or ambition, the two qualities i find most attractive in a poet. It's like she took a class on how to write poetry, and never steered away since. Again, the woman can write. She deserves attention. I think my point is that she doesn't deserve too much attention.
November 14, 2014
My favorite poems in this book were "Dust", "The Thief," and "Graveyard at Hurd Gulch". I also heard Laux read from more recent collections this past Tuesday evening at the University of Arkansas. I enjoyed the doubled nature of hearing the poet's words in her own voice, if you will. And yet, and yet. Perhaps I'm simply a hardened moralist, but I didn't enjoy her tales of stealing lighters as much as the rest of the crowd apparently did. She said, off-the-cuff, it's just a small thing, who cares, but from a poet whose fame rests on her notice of the small, everyday, inconsequential things, it seemed disingenuous.
June 7, 2008
for the sake of humanity read this book, as it is so very human in its narrative honesty and blushworthy sexiness. this sauciness increases through the book until your left quite hot under the collar. to warm up for the read, make sure you wink at the librarian as he returns your library card. cup the bookstore girl's hand as she slips you your change. there's no reason to be shy, kids. read "The Thief" or 'Kissing" while eating a bowl of hot sloppy noodles.
October 20, 2008
This is my introduction to Dorianne Laux. Her poems are rich, vibrant, "sweet leeches of desire". Her language has a lot of torque, but sometimes it can't torque me out of myself...which is what I think I want from poetry these days. Maybe this is the limitation of lyric poetry? Who knows. I will read more and more and more.
October 31, 2009
Sensual writing with many favorite poems! I love how she accentuates the simple, "stale Sunday" yet gets to the humanistic profound. Lovely writing that moves me into worlds of relationship, love, and the spaces between.
August 20, 2007
If you haven't read this you HAVE to. Like almost every poet I love, my friend Liz turned me on to her. She is amazing. Dust is my favorite poem in this book.
January 10, 2008
Ahhh...another excellent Laux book (poetry). She's SO my friend on myspace! =D
May 26, 2008
once again - laux is fearless - her poetry bites then opens up to reveal the preservation of the self . . . a fearless poet -
August 18, 2008
No home should be without it. A veritable bible for the lyric narrative writer, okay?
November 10, 2012
Gritty, beautiful, and in places, terrifying. Her voice in some of her later books more consistently shakes me, but nevertheless, these are great creations.
May 2, 2019
My favorite poem from the collection is “Fast Gas.” It is a narrative poem where the speaker works a job pumping gas and once gets accidentally soaked head to toe with gasoline. This is the first half of the poem and then there is a clear and sudden shift: “I was twenty. In a few weeks I would fall, / for the first time, in love...” The poem ends: “...he would find me like that, / an ordinary woman who could rise / in flame, all he would have to do / is come close and touch me.” What I admire about this poem is the leap it makes. There is nothing gradual about the transition. I have not read another poem that connects being covered in gasoline with falling in love—but it works. It feels “surprising yet inevitable.”
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