Ringer: Poems: Pitt Poetry Series
Autor Rebecca Lehmannen Limba Engleză Paperback – 23 sep 2019
Winner, 2018 Donald Hall Prize for Poetry
Finalist, 2020 Housatonic Book Awards
Ringer approaches womanhood from two directions: an examination of ways that women’s identities are tied to domestic spaces, like homes, cars, grocery stores, and daycare centers; and a consideration of physical, sexual, and political violence against women, both historically and in the present day. Lehmann’s poems look outward, and go beyond cataloguing trespasses against women by biting back against patriarchal systems of oppression, and against perpetrators of violence against women. Many poems in Ringer are ecopoetical, functioning in a “junk” or “sad” pastoral mode, inhabiting abandoned, forgotten, and sometimes impoverished landscapes of rural America.
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Specificații
ISBN-13: 9780822965954
ISBN-10: 082296595X
Pagini: 70
Dimensiuni: 152 x 229 x 10 mm
Greutate: 0.16 kg
Ediția:1
Editura: University of Pittsburgh Press
Colecția University of Pittsburgh Press
Seria Pitt Poetry Series
ISBN-10: 082296595X
Pagini: 70
Dimensiuni: 152 x 229 x 10 mm
Greutate: 0.16 kg
Ediția:1
Editura: University of Pittsburgh Press
Colecția University of Pittsburgh Press
Seria Pitt Poetry Series
Recenzii
“Rebecca Lehmann’s Ringer is a beautiful book. There’s something propulsive and yearning and broken with sadness in these poems. And ecstatic. And astonished. (‘His eyes / were four dozen Canadian geese lifting off a late summer river, all at once.’ God I love that!) And loving. And there is something that might put its foot up your ass. All made of a gorgeous racket that will probably make you gasp. By which I mean: be in the world anew. As poetry, if we’re lucky, sometimes helps us to be.”—Ross Gay
“What a great title! It's perfectly true—the whole book rings with surprising images and zingy word-choices, all dedicated to presenting the most mundane things in their truly astonishing particularity. Sharply attuned to issues relating to women—and the ways they've intensified in the current political climate—the work speaks with a fierce and necessary determination infused with an energy not devoid of hope.”--Cole Swensen
Lehmann’s latest book offers readers a sagacious and kinetic whirlwind of unrest and gratitude for the world.
—Publisher’s Weekly
"[Lehmann's] subjects may be selfhood, womanhood, motherhood, and family, but her tools for understanding them are an accumulated, tactile sense of life lived and the things around us. . . . Indeed, the lists abounding here pile up to create rich poetry that’s exact, sculpted, and delivered in a calm, engaged voice." —Library Journal, Starred Review
Notă biografică
Rebecca Lehmann is the author of Between the Crackups, winner of the Crashaw Prize. Her poems have been published in Tin House, The Georgia Review, Ploughshares, Fence, Boston Review, and more. She lives in South Bend, Indiana, where she is an assistant professor of English at Saint Mary’s College.
Extras
Natural History
Tell me the world. Here comes light, unspoken.
Light hooks a claw on the horizon, pulls itself
into view. Here comes water, saline,
scattering single-celled organisms.
Land is a puppet. It climbs hydrothermal vents like stairs.
Lava congeals. Land rises. Here comes land,
hand-springing out of water. Wind is a comma,
pausing the day. At night, wind kicks its legs.
What about multi-celled life? What about invertebrates
and vertebrates? Tell me evolution.
Tell me old growth forests. Tell me a rainbow.
Tell me blue-tailed skinks. Here comes science,
explaining eyeballs. Look, here come the stars.
Here comes a commuter train, hopping the rails
and crashing into an empty sidewalk
at 2:30 in the morning. Here come sparklers.
Use them to trace letters of light in the darkness.
Here comes someone’s childhood cat. Here comes a paper
about George Washington, complete with colored
pencil illustrations of his many sets of false teeth.
Tell me bourgeois glass lanterns strung from a live oak.
Tell me a graveyard bigger than its town.
Please understand I mean no harm. Hold the phone.
Here comes Tina, hand-springing across the backyard.
Here comes a tent. Wind boxes its nylon sides,
scaring the children, their sleeping bags unfurled
and arranged like daisy petals. Tell me a flashlight.
Tell me the world. Here comes light, unspoken.
Light hooks a claw on the horizon, pulls itself
into view. Here comes water, saline,
scattering single-celled organisms.
Land is a puppet. It climbs hydrothermal vents like stairs.
Lava congeals. Land rises. Here comes land,
hand-springing out of water. Wind is a comma,
pausing the day. At night, wind kicks its legs.
What about multi-celled life? What about invertebrates
and vertebrates? Tell me evolution.
Tell me old growth forests. Tell me a rainbow.
Tell me blue-tailed skinks. Here comes science,
explaining eyeballs. Look, here come the stars.
Here comes a commuter train, hopping the rails
and crashing into an empty sidewalk
at 2:30 in the morning. Here come sparklers.
Use them to trace letters of light in the darkness.
Here comes someone’s childhood cat. Here comes a paper
about George Washington, complete with colored
pencil illustrations of his many sets of false teeth.
Tell me bourgeois glass lanterns strung from a live oak.
Tell me a graveyard bigger than its town.
Please understand I mean no harm. Hold the phone.
Here comes Tina, hand-springing across the backyard.
Here comes a tent. Wind boxes its nylon sides,
scaring the children, their sleeping bags unfurled
and arranged like daisy petals. Tell me a flashlight.