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The Many Hundreds of the Scent: Poems
A stunning new collection of poetry from Shane McCrae, winner of the Whiting Writers' Award.
Shane McCrae, one of the most powerful voices in contemporary poetry, returns with The Many Hundreds of the Scent , an urgent new collection that brims with lyric force. He expands both the poetic and the personal mythologies that he has been constructing over the course of his career. In addition to introducing his readers to “the thin king / who eats the world,” McCrae invites them to bear witness to his tangle of childhood memories. In brutal, sorrowful lines, he recounts being kidnapped by his white supremacist maternal grandparents from his Black father as a boy. “O reader, listener, stay,” McCrae writes. “You are now evidence.”
In The Many Hundreds of the Scent , Homeric figures mingle with those who populate the poet’s world. Helen weighs Paris’s spear in her hand and bloodies a raging Achilles; Penelope burns her loom each night; Dido watches Aeneas’s ship burn on the horizon. A strikingly original and engaging poet, McCrae continually surprises―the collection includes a series of poems about the advent of post-rock and Hex , the debut album of the English band Bark Psychosis. With this collection, he has once more crafted an extraordinarily affecting book of poetry. As Kate Kellaway writes in The Guardian , “In McCrae’s hands, poetry is reclamation. It is also writing a way out and through.”
Shane McCrae, one of the most powerful voices in contemporary poetry, returns with The Many Hundreds of the Scent , an urgent new collection that brims with lyric force. He expands both the poetic and the personal mythologies that he has been constructing over the course of his career. In addition to introducing his readers to “the thin king / who eats the world,” McCrae invites them to bear witness to his tangle of childhood memories. In brutal, sorrowful lines, he recounts being kidnapped by his white supremacist maternal grandparents from his Black father as a boy. “O reader, listener, stay,” McCrae writes. “You are now evidence.”
In The Many Hundreds of the Scent , Homeric figures mingle with those who populate the poet’s world. Helen weighs Paris’s spear in her hand and bloodies a raging Achilles; Penelope burns her loom each night; Dido watches Aeneas’s ship burn on the horizon. A strikingly original and engaging poet, McCrae continually surprises―the collection includes a series of poems about the advent of post-rock and Hex , the debut album of the English band Bark Psychosis. With this collection, he has once more crafted an extraordinarily affecting book of poetry. As Kate Kellaway writes in The Guardian , “In McCrae’s hands, poetry is reclamation. It is also writing a way out and through.”
- GenresPoetry
96 pages, Hardcover
Published October 17, 2023
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Displaying 1 - 11 of 11 reviews
January 5, 2024
READING VLOG
The first draft into McCrae's memoir, Pulling the Chariot of the Sun: A Memoir of a Kidnapping which I read prior to this.
It was beautiful to be back in McCrae's prose, which shines more in his memoir as it allows more room for words to roam. Poem as container constricts some of the thoughts and feelings better expressed in narrative for McCrae. Nonetheless, a wonderful collection on the black body and how to move and get up and make sense of the world in its violent embrace. How does one live and love in a world that hurts them so much?
The first draft into McCrae's memoir, Pulling the Chariot of the Sun: A Memoir of a Kidnapping which I read prior to this.
It was beautiful to be back in McCrae's prose, which shines more in his memoir as it allows more room for words to roam. Poem as container constricts some of the thoughts and feelings better expressed in narrative for McCrae. Nonetheless, a wonderful collection on the black body and how to move and get up and make sense of the world in its violent embrace. How does one live and love in a world that hurts them so much?
March 6, 2024
Finished "The Many Hundreds of the Scent" last night, poems that duck and weave, dance dance and then you are COLDCOCKED under the chin. “The Speech of the Thin King’s Minder” is the most playful poem I've read in a while. Another splendid collection. It will warp your mind in a beautifully damning way.
December 17, 2023
HEX
One’s opportunities to be unhappy are
Unlimited. Or limited, but only by
One’s own imagination, which is powerful
But fragile, is defenseless, but is limited
Only by things unseen. As Bark Psychosis did it
In music, at the start of the new music, Hex
Itself the start of the new music, after Talk
Talk started it, who after This Heat started it
Who after Public Image Limited, though John
Lydon has since gone bad, or more offensively
Is who he always was, who after Public Image
Limited started it, going bad, and not to mention
Slint, not to mention the Americans, Lydon
And Morrissey gone, for or in Americans
America, for Trump or in Los Angeles
Bad, Morrissey, not even new, was never new
Except his talent was, and Johnny Marr’s, and always
The dead old art will suffer further life if new
Artists of irresistible ability
Work to extend it, though such artists must not seek
To extend the dead old art, or they will fail, but must
Make only what they must make, and if it aligns
With the dead, the dead will live again in what they make
Low strings, and keening dissonances when the strings
Ascend together, sirens of the cops inside
Their wooden bodies, their brown bodies. Listen, first
The sirens come from nowhere in the world except
For them, for them the sirens come, announcing nowhere
And then the lights from nowhere round the corner, red
Like an idea of fire, as the drums roll beneath
The strings, a shopping cart from far from where it rolls
Beneath the city on a sidewalk in the day
In the middle of the city, roll beneath the city
The strings from which the sirens come, the lights that chase
The sirens down, and live as an idea of fire
And nowhere no guitars. But space and stillness where
Guitars would be. Stillness and space and a boy singing
His lone unhappiness in the midst of the raw world
To whom I would escape from the midst of the raw world
Its now oppressive stillness, and its windowless
Disease, its timelessness, its timelessness, its nothing’s
Happening in my life, I don’t have time to be
Dead, where to run from timelessness in the windowless
Room, in the room in which you sealed yourself at the start
Of the pandemic, hoping for more life, more time
As Bark Psychosis did it at the start of the new
Music, and made a sound to which one wanders from
Life, and in which one wanders still, having arrived
One’s opportunities to be unhappy are
Unlimited, though often lately limited
By the end of the world. But maybe the end of the world is ending
Maybe soon one will be in small ways sad again
One’s opportunities available to one’s
Attention, Lydon’s to the horseman whinnying
Himself on the fetid, bloating horse, long since afraid
To kick his spurs and pop it, but he makes an eager
Whinnying, hoping to sound ready. He is ready
To be the last American, whinny and hex
And whinny, hills unfurl beneath him to the hills
Beneath the surface of Lake Erie and the ice
Above the hills that seems to constitute the lake
From somewhere other than the lake, to be a picture
Of a dead lake, the surface of the thing a picture
Of something else. How far we travel now to be
In the now impossible presence of things, to which
We ride in light, that touches and is never touched
All things, by anything, us, even in the light
How far we travel we have traveled to, to watch
The lake unmoving from the parking lot, approaching
The moment, it, the moment was already in
Our minds accomplished, the long visionary gaze
Across the ice, in the midst of which, the gaze, the ice
Infinite, has no midst, no middle, but is made
Of middles echoing, in the midst of the gaze, the moment
Through which, the visionary moment, we will leave
Our bodies, gazing, or at least our minds, for once
Won’t trouble what we see, such peace accomplished, we
Have known our peace accomplished on the drive to the lake
And by the time we reach the lake, we’ve turned around
Already, in our minds, such peace accomplished and
Retreated from, except we park, except we gaze
At the white expanse, and sigh, not knowing which emotion
Demands the sigh, and the sigh leaves us, staggering
A butterfly, our frozen breath, as butterflies
Have staggered, you have watched them, seemed uncertain where
To land, upon which flower, you’ve watched a butterfly
Choosing, or if it wasn’t choosing, still it seemed
To choose a flower patterned like itself, our breath
Escaping in the haze of its occasion, you
Watch yours disintegrate and do not recognize
Yourself. But I am watching and I see you breathing
And watching I can’t see beneath the picture of
Awe on your face, the image of the visionary
Moment, and even if it isn’t happening
Beneath the image, I forgive myself for feeling
Nothing, no visionary moment, seeing yours
And the hills roll beneath the surface of the lake
As Mogwai did it, no singing but in guitars
And sometimes human voices singing, keyboards sometimes
In 1997, three years after Hex
At the start of the new music, each guitar a wall
And hammer, both. If we forgave ourselves for making
What we have made, we would destroy what we have made
Before we’d let ourselves enjoy it, no, we won’t
Release ourselves to joy with our forgiveness, never
And so we build a tower from the top of which
We hope to reach forgiveness. Opportunities
For one to be unhappy are unlimited
A pitch of silence in the everyday unsounding
One’s opportunities belong to one, but rogue
Unhappinesses claim their midsts in a consuming
Infinity that even now approaches yours
As Enya did it, though you didn’t notice. Listen
The songs are hits, but listening, the sure connections
Between all things become long clouds. America
The sure connections fray in clouds at the Capitol
And those who scream they want you back have never seen you
And wouldn’t recognize you if you came, and those
Who lie face down on the floor in the chamber see the floor
Only. The woman on the other side of the door
Wide-eyed and bleeding, sees no metaphors. O music
Where have you fled? O music, who will make you new
One’s opportunities to be unhappy are
Unlimited. Or limited, but only by
One’s own imagination, which is powerful
But fragile, is defenseless, but is limited
Only by things unseen. As Bark Psychosis did it
In music, at the start of the new music, Hex
Itself the start of the new music, after Talk
Talk started it, who after This Heat started it
Who after Public Image Limited, though John
Lydon has since gone bad, or more offensively
Is who he always was, who after Public Image
Limited started it, going bad, and not to mention
Slint, not to mention the Americans, Lydon
And Morrissey gone, for or in Americans
America, for Trump or in Los Angeles
Bad, Morrissey, not even new, was never new
Except his talent was, and Johnny Marr’s, and always
The dead old art will suffer further life if new
Artists of irresistible ability
Work to extend it, though such artists must not seek
To extend the dead old art, or they will fail, but must
Make only what they must make, and if it aligns
With the dead, the dead will live again in what they make
Low strings, and keening dissonances when the strings
Ascend together, sirens of the cops inside
Their wooden bodies, their brown bodies. Listen, first
The sirens come from nowhere in the world except
For them, for them the sirens come, announcing nowhere
And then the lights from nowhere round the corner, red
Like an idea of fire, as the drums roll beneath
The strings, a shopping cart from far from where it rolls
Beneath the city on a sidewalk in the day
In the middle of the city, roll beneath the city
The strings from which the sirens come, the lights that chase
The sirens down, and live as an idea of fire
And nowhere no guitars. But space and stillness where
Guitars would be. Stillness and space and a boy singing
His lone unhappiness in the midst of the raw world
To whom I would escape from the midst of the raw world
Its now oppressive stillness, and its windowless
Disease, its timelessness, its timelessness, its nothing’s
Happening in my life, I don’t have time to be
Dead, where to run from timelessness in the windowless
Room, in the room in which you sealed yourself at the start
Of the pandemic, hoping for more life, more time
As Bark Psychosis did it at the start of the new
Music, and made a sound to which one wanders from
Life, and in which one wanders still, having arrived
One’s opportunities to be unhappy are
Unlimited, though often lately limited
By the end of the world. But maybe the end of the world is ending
Maybe soon one will be in small ways sad again
One’s opportunities available to one’s
Attention, Lydon’s to the horseman whinnying
Himself on the fetid, bloating horse, long since afraid
To kick his spurs and pop it, but he makes an eager
Whinnying, hoping to sound ready. He is ready
To be the last American, whinny and hex
And whinny, hills unfurl beneath him to the hills
Beneath the surface of Lake Erie and the ice
Above the hills that seems to constitute the lake
From somewhere other than the lake, to be a picture
Of a dead lake, the surface of the thing a picture
Of something else. How far we travel now to be
In the now impossible presence of things, to which
We ride in light, that touches and is never touched
All things, by anything, us, even in the light
How far we travel we have traveled to, to watch
The lake unmoving from the parking lot, approaching
The moment, it, the moment was already in
Our minds accomplished, the long visionary gaze
Across the ice, in the midst of which, the gaze, the ice
Infinite, has no midst, no middle, but is made
Of middles echoing, in the midst of the gaze, the moment
Through which, the visionary moment, we will leave
Our bodies, gazing, or at least our minds, for once
Won’t trouble what we see, such peace accomplished, we
Have known our peace accomplished on the drive to the lake
And by the time we reach the lake, we’ve turned around
Already, in our minds, such peace accomplished and
Retreated from, except we park, except we gaze
At the white expanse, and sigh, not knowing which emotion
Demands the sigh, and the sigh leaves us, staggering
A butterfly, our frozen breath, as butterflies
Have staggered, you have watched them, seemed uncertain where
To land, upon which flower, you’ve watched a butterfly
Choosing, or if it wasn’t choosing, still it seemed
To choose a flower patterned like itself, our breath
Escaping in the haze of its occasion, you
Watch yours disintegrate and do not recognize
Yourself. But I am watching and I see you breathing
And watching I can’t see beneath the picture of
Awe on your face, the image of the visionary
Moment, and even if it isn’t happening
Beneath the image, I forgive myself for feeling
Nothing, no visionary moment, seeing yours
And the hills roll beneath the surface of the lake
As Mogwai did it, no singing but in guitars
And sometimes human voices singing, keyboards sometimes
In 1997, three years after Hex
At the start of the new music, each guitar a wall
And hammer, both. If we forgave ourselves for making
What we have made, we would destroy what we have made
Before we’d let ourselves enjoy it, no, we won’t
Release ourselves to joy with our forgiveness, never
And so we build a tower from the top of which
We hope to reach forgiveness. Opportunities
For one to be unhappy are unlimited
A pitch of silence in the everyday unsounding
One’s opportunities belong to one, but rogue
Unhappinesses claim their midsts in a consuming
Infinity that even now approaches yours
As Enya did it, though you didn’t notice. Listen
The songs are hits, but listening, the sure connections
Between all things become long clouds. America
The sure connections fray in clouds at the Capitol
And those who scream they want you back have never seen you
And wouldn’t recognize you if you came, and those
Who lie face down on the floor in the chamber see the floor
Only. The woman on the other side of the door
Wide-eyed and bleeding, sees no metaphors. O music
Where have you fled? O music, who will make you new
August 21, 2026
“McCrae shows us how we need new music and new ears and eyes.”
As the whole world asked, “Can anyone explain this strange feeling,” a poet raised his hand.
Shane McCrae is considered one of the most powerful voices in poetry today. As an award-winning poet and author, he has published more than a dozen poetry collections. His latest, The Many Hundreds of the Scent, follows the launch of a new memoir, Pulling the Chariot of the Sun: A Memoir of a Kidnapping, published by Simon & Schuster earlier this year.
The poetry collection also contains references to McCrae’s actual kidnapping by his maternal grandparents, which he explores in the new memoir. The book begins with an epigraph taken from a poem by the English Romantic poet John Clare. McCrae emerges from a foreshadowing, “That rocked thee like a cradle to thy root” with poems branching into themes of family, race, and identity.
From the very first word of the book, the poet entreats the reader. “Friend,” he begins, “I have turned the brambles back . . .” and as in a Grimm’s fairy tale, the poet opens a clearing, bringing into view all that was previously hidden. In the narrative throughout the poet is often present, appearing in childhood or as a father himself caught in the act of parenting.
McCrae creates a personal mythology on par with that of the Greeks, casting Achilles, Hector, Paris, Helen (and others) in battle scenes that begin to feel oddly and eerily domestic. This theme evolves into home as country—inhospitable, and deadly especially if you are American and Black.
In writing that “All comfort is decay” and “One’s opportunities to be unhappy are / One’s singlemost inheritance,” McCrae’s outlook is bleak. How can it not be, given a narrative tipping into recent history, fresh as the January 6 United States Capitol Attack and the persistent reports of Black men and women being killed in the streets? These poems with spare punctuation move quickly, barely slowing down for a closer look at injustice. Even the strangest details, a cartoon turkey leg or a glass-winged gerbil fly on by in a flash.
But this is a poet who is comfortable with the absurd, and presents it as stark reality, solid as a ladder hoisted from the underground by construction workers at night. In “Your Black Child” McCrae asks America—"how are you alive / When your black child is dead.”
I tell myself America she was
Your life. I tell myself you knew she was
Because I have to love you still, since you
Are still alive and it’s a day since you
Killed her— because I am your black child
I raise my hands from the keys slowly because I am your black child
As is true for poetry, people often turn to music in order to cope. McCrae’s poetry actively listens and responds to music. It’s a score, really. The poems reference art and artists responding to McCrae’s refrain: “One’s opportunities to be unhappy are / Unlimited.” Proof is the pandemic, the “raw world” the windowless rooms in towers we have built hoping to reach forgiveness. McCrae laments: “Oh music / who will you make new?”
But what is a fitting soundtrack to an actual dystopia? Stare at the book’s cover while listening to “Dust Bowl” by Mogwai, one of the bands mentioned in “Hex,” one of McCrae’s longer poems, and that universal strange feeling fuses one’s identity to the times we’re living in. The impulse is to return to the beginning, the cleared path and “hundreds of the scent of oranges you’ve tasted / Newborn each time you tasted it . . .”
As speedy as some of McCrae’s poems are, others are in slow-motion matrix style, distorting time. In the book’s closing, the poet requires only seven lines of impeccable action to choreograph the stories of a rising number of dead. There is no comfort to be taken here. However, if fate is simply playing itself out there may still be hope for a reckoning. Patriots and poets alike have known what it is to be voiceless, though McCrae maintains the difference between the two.
It may seem obvious that injustice leads to unhappiness and a little less obvious that unhappiness is a privilege for anyone who survives injustice—who are not forced to assume the position, who are not flowers on a tree destined to become “strange fruit.” Those who are most vulnerable still have to consider all the ways they can be taken. It’s as clear as the footage from a bodycam.
As a Black American, McCrae seems to have moved past hope for a wake-up call. “But maybe the end of the world is ending,” he writes. “Maybe soon one will be in small ways sad again.” When this is the best-case scenario, we know we’re in trouble. McCrae shows us how we need new music and new ears and eyes. All the better if we are to live among the “many hundreds” who are following a different tune.
As the whole world asked, “Can anyone explain this strange feeling,” a poet raised his hand.
Shane McCrae is considered one of the most powerful voices in poetry today. As an award-winning poet and author, he has published more than a dozen poetry collections. His latest, The Many Hundreds of the Scent, follows the launch of a new memoir, Pulling the Chariot of the Sun: A Memoir of a Kidnapping, published by Simon & Schuster earlier this year.
The poetry collection also contains references to McCrae’s actual kidnapping by his maternal grandparents, which he explores in the new memoir. The book begins with an epigraph taken from a poem by the English Romantic poet John Clare. McCrae emerges from a foreshadowing, “That rocked thee like a cradle to thy root” with poems branching into themes of family, race, and identity.
From the very first word of the book, the poet entreats the reader. “Friend,” he begins, “I have turned the brambles back . . .” and as in a Grimm’s fairy tale, the poet opens a clearing, bringing into view all that was previously hidden. In the narrative throughout the poet is often present, appearing in childhood or as a father himself caught in the act of parenting.
McCrae creates a personal mythology on par with that of the Greeks, casting Achilles, Hector, Paris, Helen (and others) in battle scenes that begin to feel oddly and eerily domestic. This theme evolves into home as country—inhospitable, and deadly especially if you are American and Black.
In writing that “All comfort is decay” and “One’s opportunities to be unhappy are / One’s singlemost inheritance,” McCrae’s outlook is bleak. How can it not be, given a narrative tipping into recent history, fresh as the January 6 United States Capitol Attack and the persistent reports of Black men and women being killed in the streets? These poems with spare punctuation move quickly, barely slowing down for a closer look at injustice. Even the strangest details, a cartoon turkey leg or a glass-winged gerbil fly on by in a flash.
But this is a poet who is comfortable with the absurd, and presents it as stark reality, solid as a ladder hoisted from the underground by construction workers at night. In “Your Black Child” McCrae asks America—"how are you alive / When your black child is dead.”
I tell myself America she was
Your life. I tell myself you knew she was
Because I have to love you still, since you
Are still alive and it’s a day since you
Killed her— because I am your black child
I raise my hands from the keys slowly because I am your black child
As is true for poetry, people often turn to music in order to cope. McCrae’s poetry actively listens and responds to music. It’s a score, really. The poems reference art and artists responding to McCrae’s refrain: “One’s opportunities to be unhappy are / Unlimited.” Proof is the pandemic, the “raw world” the windowless rooms in towers we have built hoping to reach forgiveness. McCrae laments: “Oh music / who will you make new?”
But what is a fitting soundtrack to an actual dystopia? Stare at the book’s cover while listening to “Dust Bowl” by Mogwai, one of the bands mentioned in “Hex,” one of McCrae’s longer poems, and that universal strange feeling fuses one’s identity to the times we’re living in. The impulse is to return to the beginning, the cleared path and “hundreds of the scent of oranges you’ve tasted / Newborn each time you tasted it . . .”
As speedy as some of McCrae’s poems are, others are in slow-motion matrix style, distorting time. In the book’s closing, the poet requires only seven lines of impeccable action to choreograph the stories of a rising number of dead. There is no comfort to be taken here. However, if fate is simply playing itself out there may still be hope for a reckoning. Patriots and poets alike have known what it is to be voiceless, though McCrae maintains the difference between the two.
It may seem obvious that injustice leads to unhappiness and a little less obvious that unhappiness is a privilege for anyone who survives injustice—who are not forced to assume the position, who are not flowers on a tree destined to become “strange fruit.” Those who are most vulnerable still have to consider all the ways they can be taken. It’s as clear as the footage from a bodycam.
As a Black American, McCrae seems to have moved past hope for a wake-up call. “But maybe the end of the world is ending,” he writes. “Maybe soon one will be in small ways sad again.” When this is the best-case scenario, we know we’re in trouble. McCrae shows us how we need new music and new ears and eyes. All the better if we are to live among the “many hundreds” who are following a different tune.
July 30, 2026
An exceptionally intimate collection, without the tenderness that one expects of intimacy. The reader is implored - demanded - to take responsibility as a witness to the way (a) Black life navigates itself in the face of American white supremacy. A confrontation with the too-closeness of unbearability -- whether of systemic racism, class disparity, or the various madnesses precipitated thereby -- McCrae's thematic work is given weight by the deceptively brief moments of reprieve his formal style opens in the text: inter-line breaks, gaps in the text, enjambment. All these breaks in continuity also syntactically restructure the sentences, carving new grooves for communication, separating clauses, whittling down and disguising meaning in the rhythm of transmission. It feels cliché to say, but orating these poems aloud and experimenting with what each of the types of breaks does for the poem's delivers is its own experience compared to reading and decrypting what's on the page.
Topically, I was also thrilled by McCrae's range. I'm not equipped to comment on the classical Greek retellings, other than to say that I found them compelling to read. The poems on music/sound ("Afterhex" and its successors; "As if its Prison") were spectacular, brain-restructuring, thrumming, teeming. What he does with reconfiguring refrains and returns to show both the motility and the ambiguity/ambivalence of experience and language is brilliant. I don't really have the words to describe how compelling the style is.
I had a difficult time with the selection of poems about his kidnapping. The trauma is palpable, but because it's such a personal recounting of the event, it is stripped of the usual sensationalisation of Black suffering. It simply lays it bare, in the language that it can afford, which in its gaps and elliptical pauses is sometimes no language at all. But, capturing more than a third of the book, I also found myself struggling with the repetition of the theme, without necessarily getting a new angle on it. Individual poems felt powerful, but together, it felt a bit like hashing out the same topic over and over. Perhaps this is the point, though (or *a* point), that these systemically ingrained traumas spiral inwards; that there isn't anything inherently novel or interesting about their continual invocation, and that's part of what makes them unbearable and ostensibly insurmountable. Surrounded by poems about working class life and the racialized bodies and languages that uphold much of it, these poems ask, what if underpinning much of getting around and getting on with life is precisely these moments of stasis or impasse, for and from which there really is no getting around or getting on?
Topically, I was also thrilled by McCrae's range. I'm not equipped to comment on the classical Greek retellings, other than to say that I found them compelling to read. The poems on music/sound ("Afterhex" and its successors; "As if its Prison") were spectacular, brain-restructuring, thrumming, teeming. What he does with reconfiguring refrains and returns to show both the motility and the ambiguity/ambivalence of experience and language is brilliant. I don't really have the words to describe how compelling the style is.
I had a difficult time with the selection of poems about his kidnapping. The trauma is palpable, but because it's such a personal recounting of the event, it is stripped of the usual sensationalisation of Black suffering. It simply lays it bare, in the language that it can afford, which in its gaps and elliptical pauses is sometimes no language at all. But, capturing more than a third of the book, I also found myself struggling with the repetition of the theme, without necessarily getting a new angle on it. Individual poems felt powerful, but together, it felt a bit like hashing out the same topic over and over. Perhaps this is the point, though (or *a* point), that these systemically ingrained traumas spiral inwards; that there isn't anything inherently novel or interesting about their continual invocation, and that's part of what makes them unbearable and ostensibly insurmountable. Surrounded by poems about working class life and the racialized bodies and languages that uphold much of it, these poems ask, what if underpinning much of getting around and getting on with life is precisely these moments of stasis or impasse, for and from which there really is no getting around or getting on?
March 20, 2024
the combination of metrical, punchy lines with these cold, repeating, interruptive blank spaces is so mesmerizing. few poems here I did not enjoy as much & the reinterpretations of iliad/odyssey/aeneid i found almost cursory to the project but then you reach these lines about listening to music that has within the span of your attention already receded into the world and it makes records of all wisps of air ever: "Listen / The songs are hits, but listening, the sure connections / Between all things become long clouds"
January 24, 2024
"A sphere in the space between two hands, a coin in the hand. Eventually, like bullets in America," (McCrane 63). A good poetry collection not many poems in this collection stood out but the ones that did were good. I loved:
Your Black Child
Construction Workers at Night
The Staggering Man
The Speech of thin King's Minder
The Dead Negro in the Modernist Long Poem
Your Black Child
Construction Workers at Night
The Staggering Man
The Speech of thin King's Minder
The Dead Negro in the Modernist Long Poem
June 10, 2025
Excellent, innovative, lush. I've been catching up on Shane's recent books and the more I read the more I'm sure he is one of our generational voices. Poems like "Hex" carry a gravitas like the great poems of history. Bravo.
January 24, 2024
Delirious and hypnotic. Ranging in subject from Helen of Troy to "the Thing King who eats the world," this book will puzzle, fascinate, and haunt you.
June 17, 2025
Actual Rating: 3.5, rounded down
Read with my girlfriend for one of her classes. I think some of these poems are really good, but at the end of the day, I know poetry isn't for me.
Read with my girlfriend for one of her classes. I think some of these poems are really good, but at the end of the day, I know poetry isn't for me.
June 21, 2026
Breathtaking.
Displaying 1 - 11 of 11 reviews