Bøger udgivet af Four Way Books

"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."

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.

"Poetry from Four Way Books, 2021 Spring"--

Television, a memoir is a hybrid collection of autobiographical pieces, tragi-comic in spirit, that depict a woman's life evolving through time and culture in fragmentary glimpses. Indeterminate in genre, Television is a fluid text that sometimes reads as poetry, sometimes as prose, while exploring classism, ableism, and feminism in a world defined by the advent of new media and, for the author, a privilege that often felt suffocating. Working structurally and thematically, television creates conceptual mileposts in the memoir, with certain programs and cultural references corresponding to specific eras in the author's past, but it also gestures at an existential modality -- the experience of a televisual life, the performative arrangements of nuclear families and neighborhoods, the periodic events and dramas of an adolescence watched from outside oneself.

A specter, haunting the edges of society: because neoliberalism insists there are no social classes, thus, there is no working class, the main subject of Hotel Oblivion, a working class subject, does not exist. With no access to a past, she has no home, no history, no memory. And yet, despite all this, she will not assimilate. Instead, this book chronicles the subject's repeated attempts at locating an exit from capitalist society via acts of negative freedom and through engagement with the death drive, whose aim is complete destruction in order to begin all over again. In the end, of course, the only true exit and only possibility for emancipation for the working class subject is through a return to one's self. In Hotel Oblivion, through a series of fragments and interrelated poems, Cruz resists invisibilizing forces, undergoing numerous attempts at transfiguration in a concerted effort to escape her fate"--

A posthumous collection, Midflight collects the poems written by beloved science editor and journalist David Corcoran in the latter part of his life. Idling in a space between the pastoral and the ordinary, Corcoran's lyrical world maps the sublime mundanity of nature while exploring memory, dreams, and consciousness itself. Corcoran's lines abound with figures living and long deceased, with the dead walking onstage as if they never left. Describing the accident that killed his father when he was a toddler in "Here," Corcoran writes, "the door [opens] in midflight / and [pitches] him out." In "Last Questions," he asks, "Are you my brother or / a mockingbird?" While these haunting, vivid poems have an aching prescience, imbued as they are with the awareness of human ephemerality, the gift they proffer, to the writer and the reader at once, is the sense of finding oneself midflight, in midair, betwixt sky and ground, in the free fall of being--going and going and never gone.

In the aftermath of the Stand Your Ground killing of his close friend's father, poet Cassells explores, in his most fearless book to date, the brutality, bigotry, and betrayal at the heart of current America. Taking his cue from the Civil Rights and Vietnam War era poets and songwriters who inspired him in his youth, Cassells presents The World That the Shooter Left Us, a frank, bulletin-fierce indictment of unraveling democracy in an embattled America, in a world still haunted by slavery, by Guernica, Hiroshima, and the Holocaust, by climate catastrophe, by countless battles, borders, and broken promises--adding new grit, fire, and luster to his forty-year career as a dedicated and vital American poet.

"Rajiv Mohabir's Cutlish uses history to interrogate the word 'home' and all that it might mean to those who thrive in spite of homophobia, stereotype, and xenophobia. These poems are grounded in definite time and space in a voice that refuses to be silenced, 'They are vexed you survive; that you/rise up from the pavement...'"--

"Clever, capricious poems grounded in the very matter of life: loving, losing, and persisting ... Andrea Cohen's Everything approaches the idea of the macro through an elastic inquiry of the micro ... The collection examines logic through analogy; for example, if everything is formed of anything, then isn't absence a product of abundance? In poems that follow their own line of questioning wherever it may lead--to destinations that are often unexpected and always rich with discovery--Cohen explores love, grief, and alternate endings. The worlds she creates in the poems expand, contract, change shape, and change course ... These poems ask us to remain open and to circumvent ordinary answers on the route toward extraordinary, nuanced ones"--

"The feel of now lives in John Murillo's Up Jump the Boogie, but it's tempered by bows to the tradition of soulful music and oral poetry. The lived dimensions embodied in this collection say that here's an earned street knowledge and a measured intellectual inquiry that dare to live side by side, in one unique voice. The pages of Up Jump the Boogie breathe and sing; the tributes and cultural nods are heartfelt, and in these honest poems no one gets off the hook"--Yusek Komunyakaa.

"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.""--

"A slide show in poems documenting the ruin wrought by war and inequality on those who defy the status quo. In Guidebooks for the Dead, Cynthia Cruz returns to a familiar literary landscape in which a cast of extraordinary women struggle to create amidst violence, addiction and poverty. For Marguerite Duras, evoked here in a collage of poems, the process of renaming herself is a "Quiet death," a renewal she envisions as vital to her evolution. In "Duras (The Flock)," she is "high priestess" to an imagined assemblage of women writers for whom the word is sustenance and weapon, "tiny pills or bullets, each one packed with memory, packed with a multitude of meaning." Joining them is the book's speaker, an "I" who steps forward to declare her rightful place among "these ladies with smeared lipstick and torn hosiery . . . this parade of wrong voices." Guidebooks for the Dead is both homage to these women and a manifesto for how to survive in a world that seeks to silence those who resist"--

These poems consider the history of the Americas and their uncertain future, particularly regarding the danger of climate change, and suggest a line from colonialism toward a shattering "Apocalipsixtlán."

"A dangerous thunder, living is."

With the speaker of Bosselaar's poems, we move through dark rooms of grief, finding our way into the light of quiet solitude.

A memoir-in-poems about coming of age in sultry Florida and navigating a complex lesbian relationship grounded in the daily world.

Ross's poems are at once earthy and delicate and view their subjects through a perceptive, picaresque lens.

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.