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made
These prose poems / juxtaposing the individual / intertwine / objects and occurrences repeatedly / a cosmological chronology / inhabits. Why /narrative tension / mention / barbed wire / pieces accumulate / Rather than a direct or linear / of the universe this / These / references to certain / prose poems / repeatedly / if altered / time it indicates / a filled space / that which surrounds it.
called (made). They In the magical dictionary of (made) , Cara Benson renders hotel facades in "marshmallow" ï?? not a color, but the surface ï?? a substance I associate, at least in North America, with outdoor recreational fires. That hotel is going to burn to a crisp, in the social and planetary imaginary of Benson's intense work. What's particularly successful about this collection is the fact that ï??this projective, impossible, ruined image ï??does not have a place in the book, but, rather, appears/can in the body of the reading. Images are tracked not just for their futures but for their past versions ("garbage") - in which we "wander, but delete, too." "How can you aim a fire?", asks Benson, in the "cold axis" of an aftermath in which the earth is an "orange" orbiting or attracting the "jagged spark lines" of the sky. What breaks the sky? This is writing from the holocene. It's not trajectory. It's not narrative. It's vibration. - Bhanu Kapil
called (made). They In the magical dictionary of (made) , Cara Benson renders hotel facades in "marshmallow" ï?? not a color, but the surface ï?? a substance I associate, at least in North America, with outdoor recreational fires. That hotel is going to burn to a crisp, in the social and planetary imaginary of Benson's intense work. What's particularly successful about this collection is the fact that ï??this projective, impossible, ruined image ï??does not have a place in the book, but, rather, appears/can in the body of the reading. Images are tracked not just for their futures but for their past versions ("garbage") - in which we "wander, but delete, too." "How can you aim a fire?", asks Benson, in the "cold axis" of an aftermath in which the earth is an "orange" orbiting or attracting the "jagged spark lines" of the sky. What breaks the sky? This is writing from the holocene. It's not trajectory. It's not narrative. It's vibration. - Bhanu Kapil
- GenresPoetry
72 pages, Paperback
First published May 1, 2010
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24 people want to read
About the author
Cara Benson
4 books17 followersCara Benson is the author of the forthcoming memoir An Armsfull of Birds: A Personal Field Guide to Love, Loss, and Commitment. (May 2026, HCI Books)
Her writing has been published in The New York Times, Boston Review, Orion Magazine, Sierra Magazine, The Brooklyn Rail, Terrain, and selected for Best American Poetry. Her first book, a collection of prose poems called (made), was well reviewed in The Huffington Post and The Brooklyn Rail, among other publications. She has received a New York Foundation for the Arts Fellowship and the bpNichol Award. Benson wrote a series on walking in the woods for the Best American Poetry website and taught poetry in a NY State Correctional Facility for eight years. She lives in a former church on the ancestral homelands of the Stockbridge-Munsee Band of Mohican Indians in upstate NY.
Her writing has been published in The New York Times, Boston Review, Orion Magazine, Sierra Magazine, The Brooklyn Rail, Terrain, and selected for Best American Poetry. Her first book, a collection of prose poems called (made), was well reviewed in The Huffington Post and The Brooklyn Rail, among other publications. She has received a New York Foundation for the Arts Fellowship and the bpNichol Award. Benson wrote a series on walking in the woods for the Best American Poetry website and taught poetry in a NY State Correctional Facility for eight years. She lives in a former church on the ancestral homelands of the Stockbridge-Munsee Band of Mohican Indians in upstate NY.
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Displaying 1 - 2 of 2 reviews
June 11, 2013
“Caffeine hangovers. Bygones.”
Cara Benson’s prose poems come like blasts of machine gun fire. They feel like important memories, or memories of dreams you know you won’t access by falling back asleep, no matter how much you want to. They haunt with their brevity. The poet provides the details and spares the story. Her poems affect like music.
Cara Benson’s prose poems come like blasts of machine gun fire. They feel like important memories, or memories of dreams you know you won’t access by falling back asleep, no matter how much you want to. They haunt with their brevity. The poet provides the details and spares the story. Her poems affect like music.
Displaying 1 - 2 of 2 reviews