Michael Londra
D. H. Lawrence’s final poems confront mortality with mysticism, sensuality, and hard-won clarity.
By Michael Londra In /face, William Lessard examines how technology fragments identity, transforming our faces into data and design. /face by William Lessard. Kernpunkt Press, 100 pp, $18. Recently I saw Patti Smith perform her album Horses at the Beacon Theater in Manhattan. Filing in, a sign alerted me to the following: “Attention Customers: biometric identification…
Juan Ramón Jiménez’s “Eternities” could be considered a gallery of invisible tongues schmoozing at heaven’s bandwidth.
Matt Bialer’s long poem doesn’t see time as a clock running to zero, but as an infinite love poem.
Richard Hell is the only New York artist of the past fifty years to give Lou Reed and Patti Smith a run for their money.
Yusef Komunyakaa and Laren McClung’s goal — achieved through tag-team lyric utterance — is a noble spirituality.
You can almost hear the volume whispering in your ear, “Be like lichen.” Traumatic grief, political tyranny, and environmental catastrophe are not irreversible.
Poet John Berryman’s choice of minstrelsy in his “Dream Songs” is not just a distraction that can be explained away by aficionados — it is impossible to excuse or forgive.
The authors assembled in “Crimean Fig” demonstrate they are unafraid to speak up for Tatar language and culture, while simultaneously speaking out against Putin, unwilling to submit.
Optimistic, a canny survivor, relentless, genderfluid—poet May Swenson described herself as “I am one of those to whom miracles happen.”
Recent Comments