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It Isn’t a Ghost if It Lives in Your Chest

Autor Joan Houlihan
en Limba Engleză Paperback – 14 sep 2021
Houlihan’s sixth collection of lyric poems reflects upon the persistence of what is lost and the accidental ruptures of trauma that allow re-entry into our world. These poems are at once despairing and hopeful.
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Specificații

ISBN-13: 9781945588914
ISBN-10: 1945588918
Pagini: 102
Dimensiuni: 152 x 229 x 10 mm
Greutate: 0.8 kg
Editura: FOUR WAY BOOKS
Colecția Four Way Books

Recenzii

“With simple, bold tones, she outlines the liminalities where sleep, waking, and other universal states merge in the personal . . . shines with a serious lyrical burnish in which image and truth alike take on the luster of icons.”
—Chad Parmenter, American Book Review
“Critics compare her to Emily Dickinson and I think I know why. They each distill language and feeling to a crystalline state that never tells a lie.”
—Grace Caliveri, Washington Independent Review of Books
“. . . an impressive control of prosody and an arch yet tender sensibility throughout, often distilling perceptions of the physical world into exacting, resonant imagery.”
—Rusty Morrison, Boston Review
“Houlihan wields language like a weapon, carving out lines that are stingingly precise.”
—Ellen Wehle, West Branch
“. . . original, energetic language that confronts various shades of darkness and captures the oddness of being alive.”
—Pamela Alexander, FIELD
“. . . takes acuity and intensity of feeling not as its ends, but points of departure.”
—Michael Snediker, Pleiades

Notă biografică

Joan Houlihan’s most recent book, Shadow-feast (Four Way Books, 2018), received the 2019 Must-Read distinction from the Massachusetts Center for the Book. Houlihan teaches at Lesley University’s Low- Residency MFA in Creative Writing Program and is Professor of Practice in Poetry at Clark University. Houlihan founded and directs the Colrain Poetry Manuscript Conference. She lives outside of Boston.

Extras

Bottle Dungeon
We stood inside it looking up.
The brow of the Pont des Arts,
its nasty heart-shaped padlocks
cast from brass, filled with cuts
and tetanus, rose over the Seine.
Tourists stood another view: a tree that curled
its bark, a promenade of small pillow-
dogs, walkers with lion-headed walking sticks
who waved silk scarves while they talked—
Shall I reach over the rail for a fig, dear?
Or will it prove sour?

What a beautiful silence we made.
Like the tower clock’s stopped hands
from which a man once hung.