“This book is for those of us who want to read more poetry but are frequently stopped by its--what is it? Its chilly self-seriousness? Its unwillingness to hold our hand every so often, while cracking an easy joke? Either way, Sarah Manguso, like her spiritual siblings David Berman and Tony Hoagland, is a friendly kind of savior and guide. Her writing is gorgeous and cerebral (imagine Anne Carson) but she doesn't skimp on the wit (imagine Anne Carson's ne'er-do-well niece). Poetry-fearers, don't back away from this beautiful book; these might be the pages that bring you back into the form.” --Dave Eggers
Sarah Manguso is the author of nine books, most recently the novel LIARS.
Her previous novel, VERY COLD PEOPLE, was longlisted for the Wingate Literary Prize, the PEN/Jean Stein Book Award, and the Mark Twain American Voice in Literature Award.
Her other books include a story collection, two poetry collections, and four acclaimed works of nonfiction: 300 ARGUMENTS, ONGOINGNESS, THE GUARDIANS, and THE TWO KINDS OF DECAY.
Her work has been recognized by an American Academy of Arts and Letters Literature Award, a Guggenheim Fellowship, and the Rome Prize. Her writing has been translated into thirteen languages.
She grew up in Massachusetts and now lives in Los Angeles.
If Manguso were a comedienne, her stand-up act would consist of a loosely tied-together series of witty one-liners that aspire to pithy profundity and sometimes achieve it. Some of her more successful attempts at coining Zen-like adages include: "My back is marked with my blood but I can't see it./In this way a greater perspective is alluded to."; "Most people would rather convince themselves of being in love than of being happy"; "Bootleggers and pirates...want to put their cocks in the dictionary,/Which is wrong. The dictionary does not need their sperm." Manguso's coy utterances are the kinds of proverbial sayings the Oracle of Delphi would spout if the Oracle of Delphi were zany, randy, hopped-up on substances, and deeply perturbed by the fact of its own mortality. The most consistently good poem in this collection, by far, I think, is the sad and beautiful "Address to an Absent Lover," though the sparks of brilliance scattered throughout this book are numerous.
This book struck me as more quickly written and less considered than her first book, which I thought excellent. There are some terrific phrases and surprising turns, but many poems feel freighted with imposing themes and religious postures imbedded in smallish improvisations. Manguso's still very much a poet to read, and I might have a change of mind on further revisitation of this one, but my enthusiasm ebbed midway through on first read.
I love this collection so much. Manguso is a wizard, I'm convinced. These poems are brutal, tender, blunt, aching, wet, heavy things. They are wounds and stitches both. Favorites in this collection include the unbelievably good "Hell," as well as: "Address to an Absent Lover," "Address From One Place to Another," "Things I Have Learned," "A Final Poem," "The Movement of a Caravan over the Landscape," "The Trick is Not Minding," "Friend," "A Glittering," and the haunting endpoem, "Oblivion Speaks," which leaves the reader with this:
"I am what you understand best and wordless. I am with you in your chair and in your song. I am what you avoid and what you stop avoiding. I am what’s left when there is nothing left. Love me hard, pilgrim.”
Good, but it didn't compare to her first book--for many reasons. Most notably: it is just a different project. But I was disappointed because I came to expect something similar to The Captain Lands in Paradise.
If someone else had written this, I probably would have liked it better. Hard to tell.
These are incredibly confident poems. Though the syntax and music fall just a bit short sometimes, they do so to make very distinct rhetorical points. I look forward to seeing more from her. Also very happy to see Four Way Books putting out such excellent material (read Deborah Bernhardt's Echolalia asap!).
"The light was shooting out of my eyes again. I had a tattoo on my wrist, it was cool, It meant I was all powerful. My name terrified me, I whispered it. Every metaphor was the one about drugs. SPAGHETTI ALLA CARBONARA! nothing was safe from that metaphor..."
I just can't bring myself to apply a star ranking to a book of poetry. It feels weird. This should maybe make me rethink starring the rest of the books I read but, well, I just kind of like it.
These poems are intriguingly unbalanced; the language is smooth and polished, but the emotional cracks in the pottery are showing. The seams are tactile and rough.