makennadykstra's review
4.0
i do not believe in a god, at least not the way sexton does, so the bulk of this book misses issues of personal value, but these poems are really so lovely
"the evil seekers" ("we are born with luck / which is to say with gold in our mouth") & "is it true?" (!)
"the evil seekers" ("we are born with luck / which is to say with gold in our mouth") & "is it true?" (!)
tomhill's review
4.0
The Awful Rowing Toward God, the title itself, is a kind of haunting summary of Anne Sexton's work, which was always concerned with the line between life and afterlife and the "lust" Sexton had for death. Based on previous reading of Anne Sexton, I took the title as referring to the awful journey (life) towards God (death). And I guess it can mean that, but in this collection it also refers to the desire and the struggle to understand and/or believe in God, which no doubt concerns Sexton due to her fascination with death, but which also feels very grounded in being alive. Sexton intended this to be her last collection, published after her death, and maybe that lends the book more mystery and heft than it deserves. I think her early work is better, but there are still many lines and entire poems here that capture that dark, attractive urgency Sexton is known for.
I was stamped out like a Plymouth fender
into this world.
First came the crib
with its glacial bars.
Then dolls
and the devotion to their plastic mouths.
Then there was school,
the little straight rows of chairs,
blotting my name over and over,
but undersea all the time,
a stranger whose elbows wouldn't work
I was stamped out like a Plymouth fender
into this world.
First came the crib
with its glacial bars.
Then dolls
and the devotion to their plastic mouths.
Then there was school,
the little straight rows of chairs,
blotting my name over and over,
but undersea all the time,
a stranger whose elbows wouldn't work
raluca_p's review
5.0
and when I wake
Nixon will have declared the Vietnam war
is over. No more deaths, body by body.
(But this will be such old news
before you read my words.
Old and senile.)
Still I will hear this and will be happy,
happy kind of,
for I know there will be more wars
and more deaths
and then the headlines will be no more than a petal
upon a crater.
Deep earth,
redeem us from our redeemers.
Keep us, God, far from our politicians
and keep us near to the grape that wakes us up.
Keep us near to the wolf of death.
Keep us near to the wife of the sun.
Is it true?
Is it true?
Never mind.
I'll do my own wash.
I have,
for some time,
called myself,
Ms. Dog.
Why?
Because I am almost animal
and yet the animal I lost most —
that animal is near to God,
but lost from Him.
Do you understand?
Can you read my hieroglyphics?
No language is perfect.
I only know English.
English is not perfect.
When I tell the priest I am full
of bowel movement, right into the fingers,
he shrugs. To him shit is good.
To me, to my mother, it was poison
and the poison was all of me
in the nose, in the ears, in the lungs.
That's why language fails.
Because to one, shit is a feeder of plants,
to another the evil that permeates them
and although they try,
day after day of childhood,
they can't push the poison out.
So much for language.
So much for psychology.
God lives in shit — I have been told.
I believe both.
Is it true?
Is it true?
Nixon will have declared the Vietnam war
is over. No more deaths, body by body.
(But this will be such old news
before you read my words.
Old and senile.)
Still I will hear this and will be happy,
happy kind of,
for I know there will be more wars
and more deaths
and then the headlines will be no more than a petal
upon a crater.
Deep earth,
redeem us from our redeemers.
Keep us, God, far from our politicians
and keep us near to the grape that wakes us up.
Keep us near to the wolf of death.
Keep us near to the wife of the sun.
Is it true?
Is it true?
Never mind.
I'll do my own wash.
I have,
for some time,
called myself,
Ms. Dog.
Why?
Because I am almost animal
and yet the animal I lost most —
that animal is near to God,
but lost from Him.
Do you understand?
Can you read my hieroglyphics?
No language is perfect.
I only know English.
English is not perfect.
When I tell the priest I am full
of bowel movement, right into the fingers,
he shrugs. To him shit is good.
To me, to my mother, it was poison
and the poison was all of me
in the nose, in the ears, in the lungs.
That's why language fails.
Because to one, shit is a feeder of plants,
to another the evil that permeates them
and although they try,
day after day of childhood,
they can't push the poison out.
So much for language.
So much for psychology.
God lives in shit — I have been told.
I believe both.
Is it true?
Is it true?
estheria's review
5.0
Spoiler
The last line of Awful Rowing, "lucky love," is the title of an Ace of Base song. Awful Rowing's conclusion kicking off a peppy Ace of Base song is the perfect awkward clang to close a collection of awkward clangs that leave you itchy, uncomfortable in the room as Anne Sexton must've been uncomfortable. But it seems you might also be hopeful?I'm hiding this review because technically, it spoils the ending.