Lazy Suzie is an ecstatic, often surreal exploration of the eyes ability to turn about, to travel out the window, into a painting, through the telescope, over the hills, through the images of a magic lantern or camera obsura, and off mirrors. Not only the eye itself, but perhaps more importantly, the minds eye as it conjures up history, fantasies and dreams. On each new page attention seems to gather loosely around a subject, but the text just flows on from one page to the next; a reader is pulled along encouraged to stay with it though one sitting. It is like being caught in a whirlwind, flying from fragment to fragment as objects cohere and then dissolve, come into view and then float away:
the ray emerges like an antenna, from the eyes, here, from the… read the full review »
A Swarm of Bees in High Court
black performance has always been the ongoing improvisation of a kind of lyricism of the surplus—invagination, rupture, collision, augmentation.”
Fred Moten, In the Break
A long nocturne, Tonya Fosters long-awaited debut collection A Swarm of Bees in High Court roves in and out of the dream of Harlem. This rich cityscape, pregnant with so much history and tension, floats through the consciousness of the poetic speaker, whose sleeplessness leads her into a series of meditations on memory, desire, and daily life. Her worries, dissatisfactions, and poignant joys take flight into song through the sonic pleasure of her word play and permutations.
A collection of thirteen pieces which includes a closing praxis statement on her text, the book progresses through a sleepless night, past dawn, and into day. Composed often in tercets, Fosters work… read the full review »
It is not a habit I would endorse, but sometimes I read poems as if they were records of actual proceedings, events provoked by circumstances other than those the poet occasioned simply for the sake of writing a poem. In other words, I choose to wonder who is saying this, to whom, for what reason; I make all verse occasional verse just to imagine what occasions declare themselves fit for the verse Im reading. If its a sort of game, its one that William Fuller seems to be playing already, achieving mystery by way of exactitude.
If theres a consistent mode Fuller occupies in Playtime, its that of explanation. This particular register appears so frequently it begins to inform even those poems that dont immediately or absolutely partake of explanatory cues. His speakers seem cautiously and seriously devoted… read the full review »
The Great Medieval Yellows
The contemporary moment of critique manifests, among other ways, in a pressing call for artwork that overtly raises consciousness of the racism, classism, sexism, and environment-gutting anthropocentrism permeating our culture. Answering this call, many poetic projects such as Claudia Rankines Citizen and Brenda Hillmans Seasonal Works with Letters on Fire confront the deeply-entrenched narrative and rhetorical frames serving power structuresframes that secure relationships between self and other in a perpetual network of damage and exploitation.
Augmenting this critique is a hunger for other forms of thinking and being that re-tool subject-object relations (the core of self-other relations) so sufficiently that the old frames no longer make sense because what we are looking atwhat we are livingis not the type of thing that can be understood and represented in such a way. As the philosopher Timothy Morton writes:
Trying to offer a clear critical comment on Bhanu Kapils Ban en Banlieue is particularly challenging because it so stridently seeks to side-step the rational, hierarchical, closed-system imaginations which generate race riots, which churn womens bodies into sexual fodder and carcasses tossed out of vans, which demand that we see mental illness as an individual disorder rather than as a human soul crying out amidst inhuman cultural paroxysms. Centered around a race riot in 1979 London, Kapils text belies the notion of fixed centers or single origins of cultural violence. Instead, she offers a variety of emotional, psychological, and spiritual loci around which her text coalesces. To cry out. To fail. To rise like diesel smoke in a hot summer wind.
And now I feel I must start again. The impressive psychological density that Kapils book opens… read the full review »