A review by evavroslin
Apocalyptic Mannequin: The Definition of Body is Buried, by Stephanie M. Wytovich
5.0
*** Review copy received from the publisher for review consideration ***
I used to feel (and perhaps still feel a bit) self-conscious about reviewing poetry, because my thought is that I’m generally not good at it or that I’m going to leave out something crucial, and mostly that I’m not going to offer a substantive or long enough review. I challenged myself to change this with the new poetry collection from Stephanie M. Wytovich, Apocalyptic Mannequin. The first poem is a cathartic ode to me, a collection of our collective anxieties rolled up into one, specifically this question of ‘what does it all mean?’ and ‘what will matter in the end?’
Throughout the poems herein, there is a strong undercurrent of desperation, or clawing to survive, of wanting to insulate ourselves from the on-going, non-stop 24/7 cycle of updates, media, internet, and knowing in general.
Wytovich puts her fears of destruction on the page, of everything just burning down despite our best efforts to preserve sanity and normalcy. The ‘apocalyptic’ part of the title permeates throughout each poem, each piece of the stitched together narratives, which reminded me of a quilt-like quality.
The energy and rawness of all of Wytovich’s collections to date courses through the veins of this book, her confrontations of death as vivid as ever, but this time, with a different understanding—an external weight that hangs over all of us, this sickening inevitability, and the reactions of the people in the poems, I felt a deeper sense of gravity and connection.
The visceral, in-your-face-ness of the writing runs strongly through this collection like a raging river, demanding to be looked at and confronted. Rather than it adding to my anxiety, I processed it as a cathartic release of all the fears and pains I hold inside. “Viral” had the simultaneous effect of questioning how parents could do so much harm, while juxtaposing images of comfort, which I found interesting. It’s an affront to the notion that childhood used to seem to safe, the issues plaguing us now and how everything that has had to change as a result having stripped away the innocence.
Illness and decay, the ravages of combustible bodies, and exploring the relief to evaporate rather than face the collective weight of what we have in front of us that grows heavier each day were all fascinating themes that resonated with me. Wytovich also hearkens to the notion of disposability when bodies became corpses, which has sickening relevance even today.
The evocativeness and lush descriptions of her words echoed inside my chest and throat, phrases like “…all those charcoal-kissed butterflies drowning in the open, their wings heavy, weighed down with the arms of night.” Wytovich doesn’t simply write the poems. She paints them on a landscape of darkness that spills inside and throughout the reader’s innermost core.
She also calls to mind the theme of women being under increasing attack. The death threats, the toxic, polluting, overbearing male energy that threatens and causes pain with every step it takes has become a mutated entity we have always feared. It is vicious, deceptive, fast-striking, ruinous, and devastating. On a daily basis, women face this choking down the air of silenced throats, ‘to collect the bones left by angry men from beaten women,’ and how we make it through burial grounds every day whether we like it or not.
One of Wytovich’s most distinctive strengths for me has always been her uncanny ability to take what is pulsing in my chest, in my veins, and in the fiber of my being, and to put it to words. She has the ability to articulate that which I feel and want to speak but cannot. She conjures the strength of collecting women’s energy, of not just being complacent to the status quo. Every attempt to police women’s bodies and being that has gone on far too long is wrapped here in an embroiled, eloquent fury. However, she imbues the reader with bursts of a hopeful, feminine energy that is throbbing, pounding, and rising. This collection is a much-needed beacon of hope, of a collective pooling together of women’s strength, calling on spirits from past and present to help us forge our path.
There are many water-themed poems, even one that focuses on transformation and breathing underwater, of survival. Explorations of aftermath leap off the page toward the halfway point of the collection. Themes of entrapment, of broken reflections, inevitability, loss, no chance to breathe, and reacting purely on adrenaline, flow through the pieces.
Toward the end of the volume, Wytovich features narratives that sliced into the primitive core of my womanhood, putting names to things I dare not speak. She captures so well the nihilistic and self-destructive, self-hating energy, the complexities of wanting to erase that self and contending with the evidence left behind, the scraps of scars. Death, graves, bones and decay feature heavily, as with the author’s other works.
With each successive collection, Wytovich excels in leaps and bounds, suffusing her distinctive energy within each of these books, maintaining the conjured rawness that makes these so uniquely her own and so incredibly meaningful for the reader.
This image gave me much-needed hope: “Beware the consequences of a fire too bright, of sleeping witches woken.” It is putting men on notice, making the statement that we are not going to be doormats and accept the negative actions against us anymore. We have mobilized. You are starting to face consequences, and now have no choice but to be accountable for centuries of getting away with ripping us apart and continuing patriarchy. Although there are still many strides that need to happen, it feels as though there is a momentum now that wasn’t there previously.
If you’re new to Wytovich’s poetry and want to read more, I suggest starting with Mourning Jewelry, Sheet Music to My Acoustic Nightmare, or An Exorcism of Angels. Whatever I have read from her, including the amazing debut novel she released a few years ago, The Eighth, it has always affected me profoundly, and spoken to me on the deepest levels.
I challenge more readers to explore her work, for though it is not easy to confront the themes and images included, it is exhilarating, heart-breaking, and meaningful all at the same time. Wytovich is a witch goddess who weaves together shadows, cobwebs, skulls, and pain. She is more than an author–she is a force of nature overflowing with incredible power.
I used to feel (and perhaps still feel a bit) self-conscious about reviewing poetry, because my thought is that I’m generally not good at it or that I’m going to leave out something crucial, and mostly that I’m not going to offer a substantive or long enough review. I challenged myself to change this with the new poetry collection from Stephanie M. Wytovich, Apocalyptic Mannequin. The first poem is a cathartic ode to me, a collection of our collective anxieties rolled up into one, specifically this question of ‘what does it all mean?’ and ‘what will matter in the end?’
Throughout the poems herein, there is a strong undercurrent of desperation, or clawing to survive, of wanting to insulate ourselves from the on-going, non-stop 24/7 cycle of updates, media, internet, and knowing in general.
Wytovich puts her fears of destruction on the page, of everything just burning down despite our best efforts to preserve sanity and normalcy. The ‘apocalyptic’ part of the title permeates throughout each poem, each piece of the stitched together narratives, which reminded me of a quilt-like quality.
The energy and rawness of all of Wytovich’s collections to date courses through the veins of this book, her confrontations of death as vivid as ever, but this time, with a different understanding—an external weight that hangs over all of us, this sickening inevitability, and the reactions of the people in the poems, I felt a deeper sense of gravity and connection.
The visceral, in-your-face-ness of the writing runs strongly through this collection like a raging river, demanding to be looked at and confronted. Rather than it adding to my anxiety, I processed it as a cathartic release of all the fears and pains I hold inside. “Viral” had the simultaneous effect of questioning how parents could do so much harm, while juxtaposing images of comfort, which I found interesting. It’s an affront to the notion that childhood used to seem to safe, the issues plaguing us now and how everything that has had to change as a result having stripped away the innocence.
Illness and decay, the ravages of combustible bodies, and exploring the relief to evaporate rather than face the collective weight of what we have in front of us that grows heavier each day were all fascinating themes that resonated with me. Wytovich also hearkens to the notion of disposability when bodies became corpses, which has sickening relevance even today.
The evocativeness and lush descriptions of her words echoed inside my chest and throat, phrases like “…all those charcoal-kissed butterflies drowning in the open, their wings heavy, weighed down with the arms of night.” Wytovich doesn’t simply write the poems. She paints them on a landscape of darkness that spills inside and throughout the reader’s innermost core.
She also calls to mind the theme of women being under increasing attack. The death threats, the toxic, polluting, overbearing male energy that threatens and causes pain with every step it takes has become a mutated entity we have always feared. It is vicious, deceptive, fast-striking, ruinous, and devastating. On a daily basis, women face this choking down the air of silenced throats, ‘to collect the bones left by angry men from beaten women,’ and how we make it through burial grounds every day whether we like it or not.
One of Wytovich’s most distinctive strengths for me has always been her uncanny ability to take what is pulsing in my chest, in my veins, and in the fiber of my being, and to put it to words. She has the ability to articulate that which I feel and want to speak but cannot. She conjures the strength of collecting women’s energy, of not just being complacent to the status quo. Every attempt to police women’s bodies and being that has gone on far too long is wrapped here in an embroiled, eloquent fury. However, she imbues the reader with bursts of a hopeful, feminine energy that is throbbing, pounding, and rising. This collection is a much-needed beacon of hope, of a collective pooling together of women’s strength, calling on spirits from past and present to help us forge our path.
There are many water-themed poems, even one that focuses on transformation and breathing underwater, of survival. Explorations of aftermath leap off the page toward the halfway point of the collection. Themes of entrapment, of broken reflections, inevitability, loss, no chance to breathe, and reacting purely on adrenaline, flow through the pieces.
Toward the end of the volume, Wytovich features narratives that sliced into the primitive core of my womanhood, putting names to things I dare not speak. She captures so well the nihilistic and self-destructive, self-hating energy, the complexities of wanting to erase that self and contending with the evidence left behind, the scraps of scars. Death, graves, bones and decay feature heavily, as with the author’s other works.
With each successive collection, Wytovich excels in leaps and bounds, suffusing her distinctive energy within each of these books, maintaining the conjured rawness that makes these so uniquely her own and so incredibly meaningful for the reader.
This image gave me much-needed hope: “Beware the consequences of a fire too bright, of sleeping witches woken.” It is putting men on notice, making the statement that we are not going to be doormats and accept the negative actions against us anymore. We have mobilized. You are starting to face consequences, and now have no choice but to be accountable for centuries of getting away with ripping us apart and continuing patriarchy. Although there are still many strides that need to happen, it feels as though there is a momentum now that wasn’t there previously.
If you’re new to Wytovich’s poetry and want to read more, I suggest starting with Mourning Jewelry, Sheet Music to My Acoustic Nightmare, or An Exorcism of Angels. Whatever I have read from her, including the amazing debut novel she released a few years ago, The Eighth, it has always affected me profoundly, and spoken to me on the deepest levels.
I challenge more readers to explore her work, for though it is not easy to confront the themes and images included, it is exhilarating, heart-breaking, and meaningful all at the same time. Wytovich is a witch goddess who weaves together shadows, cobwebs, skulls, and pain. She is more than an author–she is a force of nature overflowing with incredible power.