I’ve been reading a lot of poetry lately. I’ve noticed that the reviews on the covers, written I suppose by other poets, are often quite poetic themselves.
Found in review
Like the life of the poet, the life of the world
is saturated with pain and ache
not yet finished, not yet answered, not yet resolved.
The poet sends her words into a different
kind of darkness with steady exactness,
their arc of perception over and over striking true.
The poet opens up thrilling new worlds
by fearlessly inhabiting
poems of sorrow, survival, and identity.
The poet creates a haunting, echoing
distance, a sound
from some unidentifiable place.
The poet brightens the shadowy
corners of her world
with verbal pyrotechnics.
All the pores of her poetry
are open, exuding
her entire flesh and spirit.
Over and over, at each wild
leap or transformation, flames
shoot up the reader’s spine.
Each poem is a riddle; the answers may sometimes
elude us, but we continue to read, hoping
that we may stumble upon answers.