Poetry. "'Nothing lives in us//but hunger.' In the arresting and dazzlingly original poems of SING, MONGREL, Claire Hero investigates the mongrel of our that mix of the urge for domesticity and peace and of the often more overwhelming urge toward a restless hunger for power--erotic, political, both. Hero asks what to make of the personal and public ramifications of desire, personified here as crackbone, who rides while 'the entrails of the est stink in his tracks.' What can we salvage, if indeed we still can? In gorgeous language, delicately balancing ferocity and restraint, Hero's poems announce a vision to be reckoned with. SING, MONGREL is an amazing and important book"--Carl Phillips.
I like to imagine what it would be like if Paul Celan was given a meat cleaver and asked to express the human body. How would he dissect, how would he make that dissection into words, how would he make the reader feel that vicious animal that he has discovered. It might not be horribly insightful to compare Hero's style to Celan's, but it is the most fitting comparison. The poems are fierce and violent in their image. The language is sprung and incisive.
Visceral, fleshy, intense writing. I'm finding the intensity refreshing, actually--an antidote to the hands-off, wiser-than-thou hip stuff I find (and, okay, occasionally fall for) in journals. Very dramatic first-person voice (as the title surely indicates), which is hard to do convincingly. You know, today I was listening to a choreographer talking about dancing with horses. . . dancing with them, not doing horse ballet. . . and I was thinking, uh-huh, sure--the horses are dancing with you, too. And this book is doing something like that, only in a good way. You get the feeling maybe the horses actually are dancing with Hero.