“I like being in the world of Michael Craig’s poems. Anything can happen, and probably will, and it will affect me in small or large ways that I couldn’t have imagined. The precision of their imagery keeps me reeling with delight.”
An isolate, protracted surrealism attaches languidly to objects, animals, and emotion in Michael Earl Craig’s poems of semi-rural outlandishness. Profundity takes its rightful place in the shallow arena: “You can’t step out of your tragedy, it wouldn’t be a tragedy./ Neither can I./ Together we walk/ and think thoughts in a cornfield./[ . . . ]/ A thing cries out from the interior of Corn.” The reader is embroiled in textural exposition, encountering dark recessions of realism against the relief of interior truth: “Today you strike me as needing something./ So take my ten-thousand-pound typewriter . . . / . . . For here is an older,/ other world, taking almost forty sheep to make one sock./ A serious mist fills my eye. You/ have made me cry.” Winsomely ominous vapors arise from the combustion of “dreamish, autobiographical thoughts” with their counterpart, the cosmic laughter provoked by close observation.