No Acute Distress: Crab Orchard Series in Poetry
Autor Jennifer Richteren Limba Engleză Paperback – 29 feb 2016
Jennifer Richter’s penetrating second collection of poems, No Acute Distress, introduces us to the unspoken struggles and unanticipated epiphanies of illness and motherhood, subjects rarely explored together in contemporary poetry. The first poem of each section borrows from a classic joke form—one begins, “An intractable migraine walks into a bar”—to consider the thin line this mother walks between the tragic and comic: debilitating pain met with increasingly absurd and desperate medical treatments.
Richter seasons her work with irony from the start, titling the book’s opening poem, “Pleasant, healthy-appearing adult white female in no acute distress.” As the collection progresses, the speaker’s growing children bring new, wider perspective to the poems; the heart of the book opens up to embrace the adolescents’ increasing self-sufficiency and the body’s vibrant re-emergence into health.
No Acute Distress offers readers fresh language grounded in a masterful use of form, speaking with an urgency that acknowledges chronic pain’s cumulative damage to the body and spirit, and with an openness that allows for hope and the inexplicable on the path to victorious recovery.
Richter seasons her work with irony from the start, titling the book’s opening poem, “Pleasant, healthy-appearing adult white female in no acute distress.” As the collection progresses, the speaker’s growing children bring new, wider perspective to the poems; the heart of the book opens up to embrace the adolescents’ increasing self-sufficiency and the body’s vibrant re-emergence into health.
No Acute Distress offers readers fresh language grounded in a masterful use of form, speaking with an urgency that acknowledges chronic pain’s cumulative damage to the body and spirit, and with an openness that allows for hope and the inexplicable on the path to victorious recovery.
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Specificații
ISBN-13: 9780809334827
ISBN-10: 0809334828
Pagini: 80
Dimensiuni: 152 x 229 x 23 mm
Greutate: 0.14 kg
Ediția:1st Edition
Editura: Southern Illinois University Press
Colecția Southern Illinois University Press
Seria Crab Orchard Series in Poetry
ISBN-10: 0809334828
Pagini: 80
Dimensiuni: 152 x 229 x 23 mm
Greutate: 0.14 kg
Ediția:1st Edition
Editura: Southern Illinois University Press
Colecția Southern Illinois University Press
Seria Crab Orchard Series in Poetry
Notă biografică
Jennifer Richter’s first book, Threshold, was chosen by former U.S. poet laureate Natasha Trethewey as a winner of the Crab Orchard Series in Poetry Open Competition. A former Wallace Stegner Fellow and Jones Lecturer at Stanford University, she has received an Oregon Literary Fellowship and currently teaches in Oregon State University’s MFA program.
Extras
I'M USED TO FEELING LIKE I'M MOVING EVEN WHEN I'M STILL
In the ferry's dim-lit belly we sit in seats our lives
have recently assigned: father driver, mother passenger.
Behind us, soothed by the boat's loud drone, the baby
finally sleeps. Yellow fluorescents stripe the hood, the dash,
our laps. We squint to get a glimpse of what's ahead; sea
spray on the windshield settles into salt. A bit of home-
damp waft of rumpled sheets-drifts in. Then fades.
Lately my body's felt docked, as in: all aboard.
When he leans toward me, the boat's black ramp starts
grinding down. Mothers pull their children from the rails.
STILL LIFE: YOUTH CORRECTIONAL FACILITY FOR GIRLS
The windows mirror them: unyielding, hardwired
for toughness. Each a different glimpse of the outside.
Diagonal light snags their busted-Slinky-stretchedalong-
the-ten-foot-fence background; barbed shadows
loop the kid-proofed common room. Its caged clock
stuck at time for Group. All in orange, they're spilled
from the same basket. Some are cut, though the blade
stays beyond the frame. Predictably dark green, tall,
a guard's inanimate behind them. This scene teaches
middle ground: share the molded plastic sofa, don't
sprawl across it like cascading grapes. The handmade
sign bend like a willow is a fallen, crinkled leaf. Still-
this is better than what they left, too much movement
just out of sight. The one sitting stiff as a pitcher feels
even now his fingers squeezing tight around her arm.
In the shady corner: a peach clinging to her leaves.
ANGELS, ANGELS
Most days they'd descend together into tunnels
tucked below Chicago's loud grid-my father
and his mother below streets she didn't drive
but knew which stairs would lead them to her
bakery, post office, or the vast Marshall Field's
laid out like a Roman town: all thoroughfares
at right angles, predictable, though she'd always
keep him close. Today my father shops alone
and drives the roads someone like him designed.
He's a planner, like his mother with her lists-
his mind as measured as blueprints, so this surprise
MRI and its shady grays don't make any sense:
why his wife can't go home yet, why he's buying
food for just himself, why rooms loop the nurse's
station like a labyrinth. A child's why, why, why.
He traces the brain's dim tunnels, lost without her.
MY BOY, MY BODY: WHEN I TYPE I ALWAYS MIX THEM UP
My son looks to the ceiling when they start his IV. It's funny, he
says, staring at a star nestled into a moon's crescent: why would
they paint it like that for kids when that couldn't ever happen? He
likes his surgeon's straight-talk as he's wheeled off down the hall.
All of us waiting are cuffed with children's names. The parents
who've been here before have packed snacks; they've chosen the
chairs that face the double doors. On the rack, a magazine asks
what would you have done differently? The surgeon finally
emerges with photos: the shadowed terrain inside my son like a
moonscape if the moon were smooth. He slides a pen from his
pocket. I fidget like I'm starved. With the tip he traces exactly
where my body, when I made Luke's, made it wrong.
In the ferry's dim-lit belly we sit in seats our lives
have recently assigned: father driver, mother passenger.
Behind us, soothed by the boat's loud drone, the baby
finally sleeps. Yellow fluorescents stripe the hood, the dash,
our laps. We squint to get a glimpse of what's ahead; sea
spray on the windshield settles into salt. A bit of home-
damp waft of rumpled sheets-drifts in. Then fades.
Lately my body's felt docked, as in: all aboard.
When he leans toward me, the boat's black ramp starts
grinding down. Mothers pull their children from the rails.
STILL LIFE: YOUTH CORRECTIONAL FACILITY FOR GIRLS
The windows mirror them: unyielding, hardwired
for toughness. Each a different glimpse of the outside.
Diagonal light snags their busted-Slinky-stretchedalong-
the-ten-foot-fence background; barbed shadows
loop the kid-proofed common room. Its caged clock
stuck at time for Group. All in orange, they're spilled
from the same basket. Some are cut, though the blade
stays beyond the frame. Predictably dark green, tall,
a guard's inanimate behind them. This scene teaches
middle ground: share the molded plastic sofa, don't
sprawl across it like cascading grapes. The handmade
sign bend like a willow is a fallen, crinkled leaf. Still-
this is better than what they left, too much movement
just out of sight. The one sitting stiff as a pitcher feels
even now his fingers squeezing tight around her arm.
In the shady corner: a peach clinging to her leaves.
ANGELS, ANGELS
Most days they'd descend together into tunnels
tucked below Chicago's loud grid-my father
and his mother below streets she didn't drive
but knew which stairs would lead them to her
bakery, post office, or the vast Marshall Field's
laid out like a Roman town: all thoroughfares
at right angles, predictable, though she'd always
keep him close. Today my father shops alone
and drives the roads someone like him designed.
He's a planner, like his mother with her lists-
his mind as measured as blueprints, so this surprise
MRI and its shady grays don't make any sense:
why his wife can't go home yet, why he's buying
food for just himself, why rooms loop the nurse's
station like a labyrinth. A child's why, why, why.
He traces the brain's dim tunnels, lost without her.
MY BOY, MY BODY: WHEN I TYPE I ALWAYS MIX THEM UP
My son looks to the ceiling when they start his IV. It's funny, he
says, staring at a star nestled into a moon's crescent: why would
they paint it like that for kids when that couldn't ever happen? He
likes his surgeon's straight-talk as he's wheeled off down the hall.
All of us waiting are cuffed with children's names. The parents
who've been here before have packed snacks; they've chosen the
chairs that face the double doors. On the rack, a magazine asks
what would you have done differently? The surgeon finally
emerges with photos: the shadowed terrain inside my son like a
moonscape if the moon were smooth. He slides a pen from his
pocket. I fidget like I'm starved. With the tip he traces exactly
where my body, when I made Luke's, made it wrong.
Cuprins
CONTENTS
Acknowledgments
FAMILY HISTORY
Pleasant, healthy-appearing adult white female in no acute distress
Mom, watch-
I'm Used to Feeling Like I'm Moving Even When I'm Still
Diptych: Ho Chi Minh City
Leaving Thien Hau Temple
These Days It's Hard to Tell What's Part of the Act
My Daughter Brings Home Bones
Still Life: Youth Correctional Facility for Girls
After You're Sliced in Two
ADMISSION
Patient identified the following triggers: alcohol, cigarette smoke, bright lights, loud noises
Inpatient
I Find Myself Shelved between Rich and Rilke
Disappearance
Demeter Has Never Liked Family Game Night
Hardy Boys Mystery #4: The Missing Chums
I Always Think at First I'm Right
Relapse: Behind Bars
The Only Other Thing to Watch
EXAMINATION
Chief Complaint
Eighteen Seconds
COMPLICATIONS
Today's lack of response suggests that the patient is not a significant placebo responder
Mom into Fox
My Own Blood
Angles, Angels
Bad Dream
Birds Hopped Around on the Heap to Resuscitate the Tree
Symptoms May Include: Trouble Sleeping through the Night, Sudden Tears
What to Leave Out When You Call the Wildlife Rescue Line
My Boy, My Body: When I Type I Always Mix Them Up
RELEASE
Patient states she has some fear that she might leave without being helped
Imagine
Synesthesia: The Way I See It
After that I love you will be a quest as well bye.
Demeter Accounts for This Year's Indian Summer
Girls Overheard While Eating Gourmet Jelly Beans
Demeter Can't Stand Where You At
All Right, Good Night
No Joke
Notes
Acknowledgments
FAMILY HISTORY
Pleasant, healthy-appearing adult white female in no acute distress
Mom, watch-
I'm Used to Feeling Like I'm Moving Even When I'm Still
Diptych: Ho Chi Minh City
Leaving Thien Hau Temple
These Days It's Hard to Tell What's Part of the Act
My Daughter Brings Home Bones
Still Life: Youth Correctional Facility for Girls
After You're Sliced in Two
ADMISSION
Patient identified the following triggers: alcohol, cigarette smoke, bright lights, loud noises
Inpatient
I Find Myself Shelved between Rich and Rilke
Disappearance
Demeter Has Never Liked Family Game Night
Hardy Boys Mystery #4: The Missing Chums
I Always Think at First I'm Right
Relapse: Behind Bars
The Only Other Thing to Watch
EXAMINATION
Chief Complaint
Eighteen Seconds
COMPLICATIONS
Today's lack of response suggests that the patient is not a significant placebo responder
Mom into Fox
My Own Blood
Angles, Angels
Bad Dream
Birds Hopped Around on the Heap to Resuscitate the Tree
Symptoms May Include: Trouble Sleeping through the Night, Sudden Tears
What to Leave Out When You Call the Wildlife Rescue Line
My Boy, My Body: When I Type I Always Mix Them Up
RELEASE
Patient states she has some fear that she might leave without being helped
Imagine
Synesthesia: The Way I See It
After that I love you will be a quest as well bye.
Demeter Accounts for This Year's Indian Summer
Girls Overheard While Eating Gourmet Jelly Beans
Demeter Can't Stand Where You At
All Right, Good Night
No Joke
Notes
Recenzii
“In this powerful and enthralling collection, Jennifer Richter struggles movingly to understand the relationship between self and body. With her finely tuned ear and her often wry humor, she faces how difficult it can be not only to survive physical and emotional trauma, but to preserve ourselves through it for those we love. Her unwavering vision makes it clear why this is worth fighting for, testifying with beautiful precision to the human intimacies it makes possible.”—Mary Szybist, winner of the National Book Award for Poetry
“No shared human experience resists articulation more than physical pain. In No Acute Distress, Jennifer Richter transcends these limitations and renders the physical and spiritual ramifications of suffering in poems both wise and brave.”—Gary Young
“These poems are surprising, beautiful, disturbing, comic, and haunting, mixing interior reflections with medical language and chart notes to startling effect. No Acute Distress is an intimate history of pain, in which the richness of motherhood is punctuated by the terrible losses of bodily hurt and the perils of modern medicine. It does what books of poetry do best, conveying the lived experience of another’s life.”—Melanie Thernstrom
“Jennifer Richter’s new poems delight in such deep and abiding ways that they stay with you, long after you have put the poems down. They resonate through your life because of the poet’s highly tuned ability to embrace those moments that are most intimately and profoundly human. I love too the natural music of these poems, the lines often like urgent breaths taken in moments of wild desperation to say a thing straight. No Acute Distress is a truly remarkable achievement.”—Bruce Weigl
“No shared human experience resists articulation more than physical pain. In No Acute Distress, Jennifer Richter transcends these limitations and renders the physical and spiritual ramifications of suffering in poems both wise and brave.”—Gary Young
“These poems are surprising, beautiful, disturbing, comic, and haunting, mixing interior reflections with medical language and chart notes to startling effect. No Acute Distress is an intimate history of pain, in which the richness of motherhood is punctuated by the terrible losses of bodily hurt and the perils of modern medicine. It does what books of poetry do best, conveying the lived experience of another’s life.”—Melanie Thernstrom
“Jennifer Richter’s new poems delight in such deep and abiding ways that they stay with you, long after you have put the poems down. They resonate through your life because of the poet’s highly tuned ability to embrace those moments that are most intimately and profoundly human. I love too the natural music of these poems, the lines often like urgent breaths taken in moments of wild desperation to say a thing straight. No Acute Distress is a truly remarkable achievement.”—Bruce Weigl
Descriere
This collection of poems introduces us to the unspoken struggles and unanticipated epiphanies of illness and motherhood, subjects rarely explored together in contemporary poetry. It allows for hope and the inexplicable on the path to recovery through fresh language grounded in a masterful use of form.