sam8834's review against another edition
5.0
The reason Allie Batts succeeds as a poet are her honesty (What You Will Remember, Before Fire), her strong narratives (24-Hour Safeway, Cooper Point Road, Summers, After Supper), and her cleverness (The Things He Has Misplaced, Dividing, Driving). Read her stuff. She's widely published on the net, too, so you have no excuse not to.
andreablythe's review against another edition
4.0
"if, in April,
the seeds planted in your scapulas
fail to bloom into wings
at least learn to love falling—"
— from "Boneseeds"
The ten poems in wingless, scorched and beautiful delve into the dark corridors of women's lives and bodies. These are women who have made mistakes, crawled through the muck, endured, and returned scarred but with renewed strength.
At first glance, a reader might perceive these poems as gloomy, but here death and rebirth dance with each other in cyclical pirouettes and hope comes back around eventually. For example, in the opening poem “Boneseeds,” the act of crashing down transitions through catastrophe into flight, while “breeding, trumpet flowers out of the dead ash” reveals how life — both plant vines and oneself — can labor to come back from destruction.
In “Her Intentions Are,” the “you” of the poem is a woman broken down by abuse, her shame and devastation revealed public on a city street corner. Her “every clinging breath is futility” and her “tears are scented and boiling with the stink of desperation”. The imagery, such as wolves and women in battle armor, evokes a feeling of folklore that reflects the inner forests in which she struggles. Though no happily ever afters are on the horizon, the poem culminates in the ability to rise up and continue living.
Female sexuality and how it is twisted and commodified is discussed in the poems “Pussy Pass” and “high art”. The first expresses rage at the entitlement of men, who expect their advances to be granted with ready sex — “every man who thinks sex is a gumball that’s owed to them / after putting two nice-guy coins into the girl-machine”. Meanwhile, the second explores the nature of art, noting “soft filters / don’t make disenfranchised body parts / any less than pornographic.” For me, "high art" suggests that art is a mirror, reflecting both truth and lies that are determined by consensus of the beholders.
Each of the poems collected here is powerful, revealing its own mixture of beauty, strength, and pain. Multiple readings of these poems unveil new layers of meaning and I recommend downloading the collection, which is available free online, and spending time with each one.
"...poor things, they
can’t see that I am
dead inside, numb to their
ether, the drug they smell on me is
freedom, they want to taste it like
ginger, a sweet and hot burn."
— from "Vampire Boys" (note: not original formatting)
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