Bøger i Stahlecker Selections serien

Creature is a complex poetics of vitality, and it immaculately cleaves: even as it underscores how living in an inherently inhospitable environment will dispossess us of the world and one another, making animal of man, it sutures the rent evolutionary tree, glorifying the interdependence of each extant thing. Michael Dumanis expertly cultivates the multiplicity of language and makes of "creature" a marvelous contronym; we are a creature as in a beast, debased, beholden to nature, and we are creature as in an extension of creation, improbably sentient, mortal, here. In "Autobiography," the speaker attests to the contradiction at the root of cognizance: "Am, as an animal, // anxious. Appendages always aflutter, / am an amazing accident: alive." How does the human mammal embody both and neither -- communal and itinerant, leaving home to approach it, as an immigrant and a geographic nomad, as someone's child and another's parent, as being and thing? How do we negotiate our ouroboric identities while attuned to not just our own fragility, but an impending global extinction event? The answer is the absence of answer. "In the beginning, I thought a great deal / about death and sunlight, et cetera," Dumanis admits in "Squalor," but "The Double Dream of Spring" absolves us of outsmarting impermanence. "O what a ball I had, spending the days." And what should we do in this vernal brevity but exhaust it? We each only have so long to trace our hand "over the stony bones / that, fused together, hold [our] only face."

"A.H. Jerriod Avant--Muscadine Four Way Books, September 2023"--

Cintia Santana's virtuoso debut collection, The Disordered Alphabet, reckons with the emotional anarchy of our lives, baring the difficulty of wrestling experience into language. She surveys a cosmic crossroads, "the sluices of heaven wording as we [stand] in that great rushing wind within, yet without name, turning." These poems pay homage to inherited forms while fashioning their own shapes -- Santana writes in alliterative verse, in footnotes, in epistles to consonants and vowels, in ekphrasis, in thrall. Ranging from A to Z in style, subject, and mood, Santana's poetic encyclopedia chronicles life's ubiquitous elegies alongside the world's innumerable wonders -- true to jumbled experience, they arrive in no particular order, or in the particular order of all the time and all at once. If "let there be" enabled light, it released every other sublime liquid, for then also "there was lie. // Lapse. And lake. Luck and leap. Little by little. Letter by letter. And it was late. / And there was bloom."

In this electrifying debut, lyric works to untangle slippery personal and political histories in the wake of a parent's suicide. "When my father finally / died," Vyas writes, "we [...] burned, / like an effigy, the voiceless body." Grief returns us to elemental silence, where "the wind is a muted vowel in the brush of pine / branches" across American landscapes. These poems extend formal experimentation, caesurae, and enjambment to reach into the emptiness and fractures that remain. This language listens as much as it sings, asking: can we recover from the muting effects of British colonialism, American imperialism, patriarchy, and caste hierarchies? Which cultural legacies do we release in order to heal? Which do we keep alive, and which keep us alive? A monument to yesterday and a missive to tomorrow, When I Reach for Your Pulse reminds us of both the burden and the promise of inheritance. "[T]he wail outlasts / the dream," but time falls like water and so "the stream survives its source."

Anticipating and then grieving the death of her father, Jen Levitt's So Long fleshes out a full elegiac register, sitting with the mourning of farewell while holding onto gratitude, remembrance, and a permeating love. "Soon," she says, "we'll have to find another way to meet, as moonlight / makes the river glow." In the contrails of bittersweet loss, Levitt's speaker observes all that surrounds her, and the self, too, as a phenomenon in loneliness. In the suburbs, she notes high- school athletes circling "in their sweat-resistant fabrics," "so natural in their tank tops, those dutiful kids trying to beat time"; upstate, she finds herself in temple where Broadway music has replaced prayer and discovers "no promises, / but, like hearing a rustle in deep woods & turning to locate its source, the chance for something rare." It is this humanistic faith that inverts the title's idiomatic goodbye into a statement of permanence, the truth of our enduring, improbable lives: look at this, she seems to command herself, "& look at how lucky I've been, for so long."

While Hoffman's debut collection interrogated the mythos built around grief, inhabiting an Alaska of the mind, her stunning sophomore collection When There Was Light looks at the past for what it was.These poems map out a topography where global movements of diaspora and war live alongside personal reckonings: a house's foreclosure, parents' divorce, the indelible night spent drunk with a best friend "[lying] down inside a chronic row of corn." Here, her father's voice "is the stray dog barking / at the snow, believing the little strawberries grow wilder / against a field." In these pages, she points to Russia and Poland and Germany, saying, "It was / another time. My people / another time. The synagogues burn decades / of new snow." The brilliance of this collection illuminates the relationship between memory and language; "another time" means different, back then, gone and lost to us, and it means over and over, always, again. With this linguistic dexterity and lyrical tenderness, Hoffman's work bridges private and public histories, reminding us of the years cloaked in shadows and the years when there was light.

"I thought I forgave you," Eugenia Leigh tells the specter of her father in Bianca. "Then I took root and became / someone's mother." Leigh's gripping second collection introduces us to a woman managing marriage, motherhood, and mental illness as her childhood abuse resurfaces in the light of "this honeyed life." Leigh strives to reconcile the disconnect between her past and her present as she confronts the inherited violence mired in the body's history. As she "choose[s] to be tender to [her] child--a choice / [her] mangled brain makes each day," memories arise, asking the mother in her to tend, also, to the girl she once was. Thus, we meet her manic alter ego, whose history becomes the gospel of Bianca: "We all called her Bianca. My fever, my havoc, my tilt." These poems recover and reconsider Leigh's girlhood and young adulthood with the added context of PTSD and Bipolar Disorder. They document the labyrinth of a woman breaking free from the cycle of abuse, moving from anger to grief, from self-doubt to self-acceptance. Bianca is ultimately the testimony of one woman's daily recommitment to this life. To living. "I expected to die much younger than I am now," Leigh writes, in awe of the strangeness of now, of "every quiet and colossal joy."

"An examination of a brutal America through the voices of its most vulnerable sons. In his debut collection, Fantasia for the Man in Blue, Tommye Blount orchestrates a chorus of distinct, unforgettable voices that speak to the experience of the black, queer body as a site of desire and violence. A black man's late-night encounter with a police officer - the titular "man in blue" - becomes an extended meditation on a dangerous, erotic fantasy. The late Luther Vandross, resurrected here in a suite of poems, addresses the contradiction between his public persona and a life spent largely in the closet: "It's a calling, this hunger / to sing for a love I'm too ashamed to want for myself." In "Aaron McKinney Cleans His Magnum," the convicted killer imagines the barrel of the gun he used to bludgeon Matthew Shepherd as an "infant's small mouth" as well as the "sad calculator" that was "built to subtract from and divide a town." In these and other poems, Blount viscerally captures the experience of the "other" and locates us squarely within these personae"--

"A writer traces his history-brushes with violence, responses to threat, poetic and political solidarity-in poems of lyric and narrative urgency. John Murillo's second book is a reflective look at the legacy of institutional, accepted violence against African Americans and the personal and societal wreckage wrought by long histories of subjugation. A sparrow trapped in a car window evokes a mother battered by a father's fists; a workout at an iron gym recalls a long-ago mentor who pushed the speaker "to become something unbreakable." The presence of these and poetic forbears-Gil Scott-Heron, Yusef Komunyakaa-provide a context for strength in the face of danger and anger. At the heart of the book is a sonnet crown triggered by the shooting deaths of three Brooklyn men that becomes an extended meditation on the history of racial injustice and the notion of payback as a form of justice. "Maybe memory is the only home / you get," Murillo writes, "and rage, where you/first learn how fragile the axis/upon which everything tilts.""--

An odyssey for the 21st century in poems that bind family and myth.

In his daring sophomore collection, Nathan McClain interrogates his speaker's American heritage, history, and responsibility. Investigating myth, popular culture, governance, and more, Previously Owned connects a villanelle cataloging Sisyphus's circular workflow to a Die Hard persona poem critiquing police brutality and joins complex pastorals to the stunning sequence entitled "They said I was an alternate," which recounts the author's experience serving on jury duty. Though McClain's muscular lyric explores a wide range of topics, the intensity of his attention and the profundity of his care remain constant-the final page describes a young girl in a diner, ringing the bell at the host stand, "just to hear it sing, the same / song, the only song // it knows." Insofar as this collection scrutinizes one's own culpability and responsibility in this country, interested in the natural world and beauty, as well as what beauty distracts us from, it does so in the hopes of reimagining inheritance, of leaving our children a different song.

Ignatz takes the form of a cycle of love poems--in radical variations--based on Ignatz Mouse, the rodent anti-hero and love-object of George Herriman's classic comic strip Krazy Kat. For decades, Krazy Kat rang the changes on a quirky theme of unrequited love: cat loves mouse; mouse hates cat; mouse hits cat with brick; cat mistakes brick for love; and so on, day after day. The backgrounds of the strip were in constant inexplicable flux: a desiccated specimen of Arizona flora morphs in the next panel into a crescent moon, then into a snowcapped butte, while the characters chatted obliviously on, caught up in their own obsessive round.Moving through pacy, overflowing sentences, enigmatic aphoristic observations, and pointed imagistic vignettes, Youn's second collection vividly captures the way the world reorients around an object of desire: the certainty that your lover "will appear in the west, backlit by orange isinglass," the ability to intuit a lover's presence from the way "unseen flutes / keep whistling the curving phrases of your body." Youn skillfully draws on the repeating narrative motifs and haunting landscapes of Krazy Kat as she tests and surpasses the limits of lyric to explore the cyclical elements of romanticized love. Youn speaks to and with her poetic forbears, whether St. John Perse, whose phrase "robed in the loveliest robe of the year" (T.S. Eliot's translation) recurs in several love songs to Ignatz, or Geoffrey Hill, whose Mercian Hymns these poems recall in their serial structure and their commingling of the contemporary and classical. Ignatz is a poignant foray into the inventive possibilities of obsession and passion.