POETRY that passed through 2014

Poetry always gets the shaft in book lists,* maybe because of the way we read it. Or at least the way I read it: A book calls to me from a shelf, I read some poems from it, and it lives on my bedside table for a couple of weeks. I read a poem from it before bedtime or at the breakfast table for a while, I put the back on the shelf. (At any given time, there are a handful of poetry books on the shelf I haven’t read.) Newer poems and poets I tend read online, or in journals. 

Poetry is a different substance, physically, than fiction. I don’t have a sense of having completed a book of poetry in the way I do a novel. Rather, the poems are always burning, existing somewhere, even if I’m not looking at them. It’s harder to track this reading over time, poems come in and out as I need them. I’m easily overwhelmed by poetry if I try to read it systematically, which is why it’s hard for me to keep up with the many excellent books published every year.

That being said, here’s a selection of poetry books that spent time next to my bed. Without much commentary, but ordered by the ones that gave me what I needed most at the time:

Noose and Hook (University of Pittsburgh Press, 2010) by Lynn Emanuel

image

The poetry book I most needed this year. Sometimes poems open up for you and sometimes they remain closed. These were open for me. Here’s a good one.

Waterworn (Fly by Night Press, 1995) by Star Black.

image

Phenomenal, dazzling sonnets. Here’s one.

Selected Poems (University of California Press, 2000) by Fanny Howe.

image

The Fanny Howe book I return to most often. Poem sequences full of mystery, like private prayers.

The Great Enigma: New Collected Poems by Tomas Transtromer (trans. Robin Fulton) (New Directions, 2006).

image

A stillness, a relief of silence surrounds much of his work. 

Ariel: the Restored Edition by Sylvia Plath (Harper Perennial, 2005 edition, original 1963).

image

This is the version her daughter put together, restoring Plath’s original order. I read it back to front (a frenzy of bees!) this time around.

Short Talks (Brick Books, 1992) by Anne Carson.

image

I was excited to find this little book, which was published before she got big, and is excerpted in the more widely available collection Plainwater. I picked this up at a  poetry-only bookstore in Boulder, CO called Innisfree.

Black Series by Laurie Sheck (Knopf, 2001)

image

Words that remained: Ash, unfastening, gauzy.

Tres by Roberto Bolaño (New Directions, trans. by Laura Healy 2011, original 1993)

image

Bilingual edition. Prose poem sequences.

Meat Heart (Publishing Genius Press, 2012) by Melissa Broder

image

Caustic, searching, dirty.

My Dead (Octopus, 2013) by Amy Lawless

image

The inside speaking.

Take It (Wave Books, 2009) by Joshua Beckman

image

Funny, wandering, untitled.

Motherland Fatherland Homelandsexual (Penguin Books, 2014) by Patricia Lockwood.

image

Probably the poetry book that made the biggest splash last year. I picked it up after reading that long New York Times Magazine feature.

Some Trees (1956) by John Ashbery 

image

His first book, winner of the Yale Younger Poets Prize.

Poetry journals online that I read: Coconut, BOMB Magazine’s First ProofSink Review,  and Sixth Finch. I also sought out poems by Mary Ruefle online after reading her book of essays.

* This was originally posted as an addendum to my book list, but I realized poetry should be given its due.

I tried to flatter myself into extinction; tried to bury alive in a landslide of disparagement ego and subjectivity and the first person singular pronoun. I ran identity to ground with the dogs of irony; I tried to kill, bury, burn, embalm, and erase the outlines of me, mummify myself in the damp wrappings of surrealism, sever and rearrange me with Stein’s cubisms, break, buy, bribe, drive a stake through me; tried to whip to death the whole frumpish horse-and-buggy, essentialist, runs-in-the-blood notion I had of who “I” was; like Stein I tried to bleed the bloody paragraph to death, killed the semicolon with the machete of my wit, tried to censor and edit, rewrite and emend me, my belief in lifeblood, marrow, core, and fiber; tried to swap my DNA at the DNA supermarket I read about in Philip K. Dick. So what is I still doing here? Why is I having to keep its eyes peeled? Its eye on the ball? Trying to steer by some dim star, that small, raw planet of self-loathing hammered into the night ahead? Why is I hauled forth over this choppy terrain like a tug on the rough boulevards of a black river? And by whom?

Lynn Emanuel, from Noose and Hook