Sensations of Travel: New and Selected Poems 1990-2010

Refresh and try again. Open Preview See a Problem? Thanks for telling us about the problem. Return to Book Page. The Retrieval System by Maxine Kumin. Paperback , 69 pages.

To see what your friends thought of this book, please sign up. To ask other readers questions about The Retrieval System , please sign up. Lists with This Book. This book is not yet featured on Listopia. Nov 09, Shannon rated it it was amazing Shelves: She reinvents them, reintroduces them to the reader's present, be it her rugged aged neighbor Henry Manley, her daughter in Europe, Anne Sexton, or her old self sunbathing during an evanescent summer in Berkeley.

She wields a Tolstoy-esque description of farm living: With a discriminating eye she notes the movement of animals through timothy grass, the pot-cheese texture of snow, a horse at the paddock fence--giving rapt attention and tender meaning to the rural details of her everyday life. A powerful book of poetry, touching in on life on a farm in New England as seen through the eyes of a quiet watcher with deep emotion.

I particular loved the section entitled "Henry Manley," a series of poems about her elderly farmer neighbor, who wasn't much of a talker, but taught her so much about how to take care of the land and animals. It is an unlikely friendship and it's beautiful how she documents their connection.

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May 27, Crystal rated it really liked it Shelves: When we die, all four of us, in whatever sequence, the designs will fall off like face masks and the rayon ravel from this hazy version of a man who wore hard colors recklessly and hid out in the foreign bargain basements of his feelings. Jul 28, Laurie Petersen added it. Merwin and James Tate are two poets who have remained constant companions, for their unfailing allegiance to the ill communication.

After having published three collections of poems, has your process for writing poetry changed? My process has changed for each book I have written. When I was writing the poems that would ultimately make up my first book, in graduate school at UMass Amherst, at first I used a computer, but found it frustrating, mostly because of my limitations as a poet. The computer was in a way too powerful a device for me at that stage: I found myself writing and then erasing or tinkering or making changes way too fast, without any real sense of why or even what I was doing.

It was frustrating, so I knew I needed to slow myself down. My grandfather was one of those people who kept everything in immaculate condition, so the typewriter was perfectly clean and required no fixing other than a new ribbon. I started writing poems only on the typewriter, so every new draft I wanted to write—even if it was just to change one word, or a line break—I would have to retype the poem again. So for each poem in my first book or at least most of them there is somewhere a pile of anywhere between 50 and individual sheets of paper, each with a version of the poem, usually only barely changed.

Each one like a flip book made by a more than slightly insane graphomaniac. Her control — of subject, sound, syntax — rarely wavers. In fact, this book shows extraordinary range pun intended. From formal to free verse, from loud to soft, from the Bible to Sufjan Stevens, Range covers a lot of ground. In doing so, she brings something old back into poetry, a stiff wind of rigor — of both thought and craft — a joyful, loud noise, a song of praise if not a song of approval.

Range is a modern Miriam, singing of the costs and troubles of war, dominion, and the damages men do. Don Mee Choi recently read from her debut collection The Morning News is Exciting at Open Books in Seattle, presenting sections of different poems without pausing between the excerpts or adding words of explanation at the start of discrete pieces. Perhaps the book can be successfully excerpted in a reading because Choi routinely fragments the emotions and intentions that a more conventional poet would attach to the personae representative of those under patriarchy, imperialism, nationalism and colonialism.

We do, in fact, meet the personae, but the point of the poems is not to tell their narratives in an uninterrupted way.

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Rather, their narratives have been repeatedly interrupted and torn off course. Images of containment on the micro level run through the book, in the form of zip-lock bags and hygienic precautions that, through the trauma of occupation compounded by cultural prescriptions, become obsessive compulsive:.

Wash and wash and then write to the world. The news will break. Just wait and see…Girls should. I write to the world. My book is taped up in a box. Wash and wash till the smell is gone, blood is gone. Images of doubling more schizophrenia? A cowry girl has multiple rows of teeth, but her natural defenses turn her into a specimen: The repetitiveness and doubletalk. Therefore be considered a synonym. Punctuating the book are bits and pieces of theoretical texts in this case, The Story of Cruel and Unusual by Colin Dayan , of use to the author in the same way as the erasures and homophonic translations used to produce some of the pieces prove helpful.

Choi offers the reader the same conceptual shards at key moments in her sequences. Another instance of doubling — actually triangulation, or more! For poetry — I have you. One need not be a House — One need not be a Nation or a Master for that matter. Delicate and beautiful, common in rich mossy woods, in pairs, we live. We are crimson-pink, particularly in the mountains.

The rough terrain is not visible to many, but somewhat green and fatigued, demilitarized! And from far away is hollow. True men — how shall I greet them? Nation building is kind and generous. It is common to decline it. Choi has bloomed in this book. A Selection of Poems— Chelsea Editions That is to say, to me The Seaside! This is a wall of great intensity and furious it kind of hums yellow and hums green and never shall it hum purple Captain when will you relieve me The wall I love at night is huge and warms me like a caterpillar or a bag but do I also have a family Captain or is the wall the only shelter I have known and furious why and humming brightly why Why is all the beauty in the wall and not in me Captain and in you ….

How refreshing to discover a poet confident enough to allow one phrase to interlock with the next and never interpose her own opinion! On the other hand, what a relief to read a poet who writes in dream-space and actually makes sense, the kind of sense that draws us magnetically forward. Dreams, we know, often make more sense than reality. Captain you are studded lines of buttons That is some finery! I think that … I imagine that, at least … Heather Christle views her poems as aesthetic objects.

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She has a blunt and repetitive way about her, an objectivist way, that reminds me of Gertrude Stein. I think Christle writes the way Stein would have written if Stein had been on Facebook: They asked me if I was on fire and I said No no no no no no no I did not want to make trouble I was lying I was on fire on my legs and on my hands I was ashamed I tried to hide my legs by kneeling I set the grass on fire ….

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Although that question is never clearly resolved in Christle or Anderson , one might more safely say that these are confessional poems. Her crackpot polar-bear prediction is also a joke. Safer to stay in the range of odd pleas to seamen, arctic experiments, etc.

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You may purchase one by clicking here. He lives in Los Angeles. Rarely have forty years of poetry looked as fresh and energetic on the page—on all three hundred and fifty of them. House-like, they are domestic, purposeful, and made of solid stuff. Key words bounce up against each other sonically and thematically: The sounds seem to fall exactly where they should, but the pattern is fresh enough to make you listen in a different way. Each small gesture stays sharp and deliberate, as the accumulating changes build something profoundly new.

Though Reich and Feldman are in a different vein from the musicians Taggart typically mentions — he is drawn to jazz, soul, and rock from its origins in the fifties to punk—music is a key impetus and theme in his work. No poet handles lines from songs with more imagination. Visual artists are also central, especially R. Kitaj and Mark Rothko. The poems in Tongue are well-crafted lyrics, yes, but what is most fascinating is how Flynn enables the reader to join her speaker on the journey of memory that is told through created myth and bizarre side-stories.

Subtle references to Hansel and Gretel appear in this collection as does the story of a human tongue found washed up on the beach when the speaker of this collection stays one summer while helping her dying grandmother. It makes hard spots of tenderness.

In this, Flynn creates a Brothers Grimm-dark, fairytale world as an artifice to build upon a narrative of familial tragedy and the loss of childhood.

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In her twelfth summer, a girl left the Midwest for an island in Main where her brilliant, ill grandmother lives in a cottage on a pine-rimmed lake. The girl was to keep house, to keep the old lady company. Back home, her older sister starved herself. That summer, the island was troubled by the discovery of a human tongue on the beach. This note creates and atmosphere of myth that holds the poems in the collection together. It is love that tethers the speaker of Tongue to this world of illness, death, and familial discord, and love that carries these lyrical, tightly-woven narratives.

There are a couple I have never heard of that I will definitely check out. You must be logged in to post a comment. This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed. And you will keep your cool. Back to ground, I see you on the moon with your mirror catching action on the parallax. I author this Eden to keep you near.

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Wake-robin trillium in dapple shade. Violets, landlocked seas I swim in. I used to pick bouquets for her, framed them with leaves. Schmutzige she said, holding me close to scrub my streaky face. I have lived in the black crater of feeling every moment is the moment just after one has chosen forever to live in the black crater of having to live in the black crater and therefore I know exactly why David Foster Wallace took his life away from himself even though he was also taking it away from everyone he knew.

This morning I was woken by soft sour breath a slight fleck of metal in the organic like a field of titanium gravestones growing warmer in the sun. I could breathe it for hours but now it is gone which is ok as long as the exhaling somewhere else continues.

Her job is to incrementally regulate the conduct of those who regulate the city and mine is to be happy for a few moments thinking I could actually be one who is happy watching afternoon fog pour predictably down into sunny Noe Valley from cold Twin Peaks.