In this gorgeous third collection, Sandra Lim investigates desire, sexuality, and dream with sinewy intelligence and a startling freshness. Truthful, sensuous, and intellectually relentless, the poems in The Curious Thing are compelling meditations on love, art making, solitude, female fate, and both the mundane and serious principles of life. Sandra Lim’s poetry displays stinging wit and a tough-minded approach to her own experiences: She speaks with Jean Rhys about beauty, encounters the dark loneliness that can exist inside a relationship, and discovers a coiled anger on a hot summer day. An extended poem sequence slyly revolves the meanings of finding oneself astray in midlife. A steely strength courses through the volume’s myriad discoveries―Lim’s lucidity and tenderness form a striking complement to her remarkable metaphors and the emotional clamor of her material. Animated by a sense of reckoning and a piercing inwardness, these anti-sentimental poems nevertheless celebrate the passionate and empathetic subjective life.
I did not personally resonate with all of these poems, but they are objectively very good. (Who are we to argue with Louise Glück? is really how this goes.) Lim has an expert hand at enjambment: consider “. . . What was more terrifying than / being abandoned? . . .” and “. . . the grieving joy of words / set down right. The cold bores her, / oppresses her. Life // comes to bore her. She can strip / a thing down. I want / beauty, she adds. Hear me?” (from “Jean Rhys”). Her images could cut with how in-focus they are, describing the “gaiety of the heart” after pain as “a stone / flung from a volcano” (from “The Protagonists”). I kept being startled—or shaken—by her word choice and where she chose to redirect even the smallest sample of narrative. She has clearly mastered an understanding of “the turn” in poetic work. Everywhere, she subverts expectations, and that’s one of the most underrated beauties of curiosity.
I can't say this about a majority of contemporary poetry, but I did truly *enjoy* this collection. Lim is sharp and quick, and I appreciated her ambivalence about her role as a single, childless woman. Some of the poems felt less complete or narratively clear, but there were still many surprising moments that I felt compelled to underline. Imagine if Louise Gluck were less embittered and had a better sense of humor -- you might end up with this book.
i’m struck by how similar this is to my thesis/one of my manuscripts
very effective intertexuality (explicit mentions of other authors, but the poems also talk to themselves). the manuscript itself feels well-organized.
in direct convo with jean rhys, spinoza, flaubert, etc
love “the immoralists,” “boston,” obviously) “pastoral,” this line in “portrait in summer”: “summertime: parole for academics,” “spinoza says,” “san francisco,” “a walk around the park,” and “the mountaintop”
i did wonder about line breaks - esp while reading certain poems aloud. there were moments where my breath guided me elsewhere, different breaks than what was recorded on the page but may just be my ear…
lots of ars poetica happening, anxieties about aging/life milestones. grounded in place/s, references to romantic/sexual relationship that dissolves.
In the dream, I got up early And went out to shoot a rabbit, because There was no meat for Sunday. It was too cold, horses and birds were frozen solid. Nevertheless, the landscape pleased the purist in me. I put on skates to go out on the gray pond. All the while, a low fever clung to me; it was As acrid as piss, as sweetish. So I knew I still wanted to be loved. I had no reflection there, but then who could be Reflected in ice? I cried in my bed. Yet, no mistaking it, it was my season, I prospered. I made endless figure-eights In a strange night exhilaration. My appetite was good.
When it comes to my experience with most poetry, poems fall into two categories: some poems are wonderful; evocative, with a stunning use of language. They move you, or make you think. Other poems are awful; clunky and meaningless. In my experience with this book, none of the poems here fit into either of these categories. They were the epitome of average; poems that had a decent use of language, but not overly creative, and that neither inspired, nor repelled. I honestly can't say that I liked any of the poems in this book, and I honestly can't say that I disliked any of them either. I read each one carefully, thought about it, and moved on without much feeling. Every poem had a certain legitimacy, but each one kept me at a cold distance. Many of the poems seemed to shift topics at awkward points, even mid thought, and they had this odd dichotomy wherein the language was accessible but the meanings of the poems were not. If there was a poem here I liked, it was The Absolutist, but it stood out only because it created certain associations for me. On the whole, I didn't dislike this collection, but I'm sure I won't remember any of it either.
As in the poems in The Curious Thing titled “Pastoral,” one of which describes “Drinks on a sunny patio” and the fate of a bird who lives inside the house, the poems in this book make clear the dubious division between the interior mind, the external body, and the greater-than-human world. Sandra Lim’s poems use images from the natural world as metaphors for the human mind, the hungry body, but they never co-opt the independent energy of the mountain, lake, stag, or rose with which her vision aligns. As in a lucid dream where nothing and everything is real, Lim writes a world that is both magically metaphorical and fundamentally true.
It took me a minute to warm up to this collection but as soon as I hit "Naxos" I was struck and decided to re-read everything before moving on.
From Jean Rhys:
"Jean Rhys is saying/If I could jump out of the window/one bang and I'd be out of it.
It isn't done/ to admit to this kind/ of need,/
but spirit needs a house,/and the brief pageant of being/escorted through/
the grieving joy of words/set down right...."
Man oh man what a set of stanzas! By the time I hit A Shaggy Dog Story (another favorite) I was very engaged and ready to pour over this to look for some technique behind Lim's magic. Spoiler: there's a lot to find.
Sandra Lim's collection, The Curious Thing, replays the record scratch of memory. As Lim reckons with life's ordinary, she simultaneously forgives life for being gratifying. This collection was written with humility, written with one's head bowing. The poems have so much grounding and room for movement. I am so glad I read this book in the final days of summer—it is a book meant for this fading weather.
"And when the world treats you well, / you sometimes come to believe / you are deserving of it."
A quick but powerful read from Sandra Lim. This one gets 3.5 stars!
These poems play with female desire, isolation, and the many tests of time. Sandra expertly examines her own art as she lays it out before you. The Curious Thing takes a sharp, introspective look at what happens to a body stranded in the cold—the reverence and resilience that overtake.
It’s been a while since I found a poetry collection with a writing style I truly enjoy, but this one definitely hits the mark! The Curious Thing is elegant, introspective, and quietly intense, and it strikes just the right balance between the everyday and the philosophical. I was moved by the intellect and self-reflection displayed in these poems. I’ll definitely be reading more of Sandra Lim in the future!
”And when the world treats you well, you sometimes come to believe you are deserving of it.”
I thought it was alright. The writing was nice, and pretty, and those are things I really like in books, so that’s the majority of my stars. The rest of it is the exploration of sexuality and femininity. I liked Sandra’s voice on her love and disappointment in men (i can definitely relate), and it wasn’t too bad to read.
But the problem was that I just felt bored by it. I wasn’t having much fun reading this, and I don’t know why. Some of the poems just didn’t work for me, and I found myself staring outside the window instead of reading, or daydreaming about some other thing despite my eyes physically looking at the page. I know it’s not because of attention span (see The Survivor Wants to Die at the End for proof) or because I don’t like poetry (i do, check out Apsara in New York for proof of that). And I hate to disappoint, but I can’t place what it is about this book that I can’t bring myself to enjoy. I’m sorry. Maybe this book isn’t for me. It had its moments, but this would probably be better for someone else.
One of my most anticipated books, and of course, it was exactly what I needed to read. Lim's poems continue in their stark discoveries and tone from The Wilderness, with an emphasis on how we, as humans, approach emotional clarity with each other.
I liked the way she plays with language, and the overall sense of her meditation on middling.
Not enough media delves into the quiet middles of things, and the weird sense of displacement that sometimes arises out of not being where you were, but not quite being where you're going, either.
These are poems I've returned to again and again, and each time I have a sense of astonishment about the unique and exquisite language Lim has found to express the profound and the banal experiences of life. Love this book.
Lim’s collection is a breathtaking sucker punch of beautifully devasting observations of love, lust, internal drive, and the silent spaces between. Insightful, introspective, and impossible to dismiss.
Wow! Incredible diction and rhythm, a very emotional read.
"...by longing. These rank weeds spring up beside a curious sense of sequel. I remember it sharply now: a little time ago, wishing I had something new, and the strain of it nearly killing me. There was no deeper meaning."
excellent collection. generated a whole bunch of poems in me. no honorable mention because it's late and i'm tired, but rest assured there are many worthy poems.