The archaeological excavation of a 2000-year-old woman (possibly a storyteller or shaman) in Siberia named Ledi, and an urgent excavation of the death of a former lover by suicide, are the focus of this fascinating and enigmatic book.
This is Erin Robinsong’s first book and its scope is vast, its premise to somehow gather the cosmos into a bucket an ambitious one. We’re reminded that there’s “no eros / like earth,” and that to be human is to be sensuous. Lines pulse with succulent life, hypnotic in its eroticism, heartbreaking in its frailty. An exploration of life’s many shapes, from polygons and fractals to amorphous entities, leads the reader through a landscape before cities and villages, before humans stamped the map.
I’ve been drifting around in Aaron Giovannone’s latest book of poems, The Nonnets, for a while, trying to figure out, ridiculously, why I love this volume of poetry so much―its wit, its wonder, its space. There is a strange delight in staring at the figures in Giovannone’s plazas, trying to grasp how big it all feels, how human, how funny it is, like returning to the metaphysical landscape of Giorgio De Chirico’s painting, “Mystery and Melancholy of a Street,” only to find that in each return, each rifacimento, each nonnet, there are new figures prowling around, exchanging half-heard jokes and laughter, while you, the reader, keep seeing mysteries suddenly shift across the sand, subtly altering the metaphysics of the square itself. This book is full of surprises and embraces, and is strikingly beautiful.