dan1066's review against another edition
4.0
Arnica nods heavy-headed on the bruised slope.
Peaks recede in all directions, in heat-haze,
Evening in my recollection.
The shield at my throat ornamental and worse.
We descended the gully thrummed into confusion
With the last snowmelt a tricklet into mud, ulterior--
One wolfbane bloom, iodine-hued, rising on its stalk
Into the luster of air: June really isn't June anymore,
Is it? A glacier's heart of milk loosed from a thousand
Summer days in extravagant succession,
From the back of my tongue, dexterous and sinister.
"Hyperboreal"
I cannot for the life of me remember which poet or critic or article recommended Joan Naviyuk Kane's poetry--but I thank the party all the same. Hyperboreal is oddly satisfying, emotionally. As the opening poem quoted above notes, we descend into its depth "thrummed into confusion."
Kane has a deft control of image and mood, the enviable ability to always choose the unexpected yet perfect word. I never felt I couldn't read her poetry; I never felt I couldn't feel her poetry, either: I just couldn't fully comprehend her poetry. Kane isn't writing an autobiography nor is she simply ranting about the plight of her people. While there are hints of both within the work, the meaning drifts like snow over the bedrock. Kane's poetry requires slow, careful, repeated readings--and is immensely rewarding when approached with an open mind not focused on understanding "what it means."
At the rim of the world, the aching world,
a fault of snow and shadow.
She predicts sense yet I find none:
nothing, in fact, but the edges of things,
in wind and the movement of animals.
Through dreams inlaid with rigid marrow
at last I grew to grasp her fear:
it was to have been a survivor
when there were no others.
Between my dreams, the net of them,
light breaks above an oyster midden
as one day yokes itself to another.
She could not be farther--
somewhere near the mingled voices
of boys as they gather rocks for slingshots.
Hers a force as vital as my own disgrace:
the pulse of it plays back at me.
There is no final story,
no assertion, no deception.
I may never know who I am.
I splint the stem broken in recurrence
from leaning so many times,
and smother the roots in sand.
The shoot shifts ever toward the light.
On Either Side
Peaks recede in all directions, in heat-haze,
Evening in my recollection.
The shield at my throat ornamental and worse.
We descended the gully thrummed into confusion
With the last snowmelt a tricklet into mud, ulterior--
One wolfbane bloom, iodine-hued, rising on its stalk
Into the luster of air: June really isn't June anymore,
Is it? A glacier's heart of milk loosed from a thousand
Summer days in extravagant succession,
From the back of my tongue, dexterous and sinister.
"Hyperboreal"
I cannot for the life of me remember which poet or critic or article recommended Joan Naviyuk Kane's poetry--but I thank the party all the same. Hyperboreal is oddly satisfying, emotionally. As the opening poem quoted above notes, we descend into its depth "thrummed into confusion."
Kane has a deft control of image and mood, the enviable ability to always choose the unexpected yet perfect word. I never felt I couldn't read her poetry; I never felt I couldn't feel her poetry, either: I just couldn't fully comprehend her poetry. Kane isn't writing an autobiography nor is she simply ranting about the plight of her people. While there are hints of both within the work, the meaning drifts like snow over the bedrock. Kane's poetry requires slow, careful, repeated readings--and is immensely rewarding when approached with an open mind not focused on understanding "what it means."
At the rim of the world, the aching world,
a fault of snow and shadow.
She predicts sense yet I find none:
nothing, in fact, but the edges of things,
in wind and the movement of animals.
Through dreams inlaid with rigid marrow
at last I grew to grasp her fear:
it was to have been a survivor
when there were no others.
Between my dreams, the net of them,
light breaks above an oyster midden
as one day yokes itself to another.
She could not be farther--
somewhere near the mingled voices
of boys as they gather rocks for slingshots.
Hers a force as vital as my own disgrace:
the pulse of it plays back at me.
There is no final story,
no assertion, no deception.
I may never know who I am.
I splint the stem broken in recurrence
from leaning so many times,
and smother the roots in sand.
The shoot shifts ever toward the light.
On Either Side
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