Strange What Rises - by Gary J Whitehead (Paperback)
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<p/><br></br><p><b> About the Book </b></p></br></br>"Departing from the more whimsical tone of A Glossary of Chickens--Whitehead's last book--this new collection explores, among other subjects, childlessness in middle age, the vicissitudes of divorce, the pain of parental aging, and the mystery of mortality"--Publisher marketing.<p/><br></br><p><b> Book Synopsis </b></p></br></br><p>Departing from the more whimsical tone of <em>A Glossary of Chickens</em>, Whitehead's last book, this new collection explores, among other subjects, childlessness in middle age, the vicissitudes of divorce, the pain of parental aging, and the mystery of mortality. Laden with regret and misgiving, but illuminated by glimmers of hopefulness and joy, the poems flow organically and without sections, one building on the other with thematic or linguistic links, moving from silence to song, from a corrupted flower to "the force / of the crossing when the humming ceases."</p><p/><br></br><p><b> Review Quotes </b></p></br></br><br><p>While much of America is roiling with heady hysterias, along comes Whitehead with quiet, observational poems that impale the heart. "All at once you're out of love again," he says, "and it's like the earth has jerked on its axis"--gorgeous, lapidary lines that have clearly risen from the earth, through the poet, through heart and brain, and, in every poem, established a newfound state of strange grace and shrewd balance. These poems are not soft and harmless; don't for a minute, expect that. They're energies that establish the ground we all rise from, and they give us a place to stand while we watch his "hanged man kick the air." --Ren�e Ashley, <em>The View from the Body</em></p><p><br /> It is such a pleasure to sit with Gary J. Whitehead's latest book, <em> A Strange What Rises</em>, as these meditations continually search for the profound with deep attentiveness, whether in moments of stillness or in moments of tumult. I was hooked from the very first poem, "Wild Columbine." Here is a keen eye for the lyric sweep of a poem braided with a narrative propulsion. Whitehead never averts his gaze, whether in service to beauty or in witness to the painful. He says, � oeLet me raise the storms, � and he does just that, with "an avian choir, / days with repeating phrases, // whole summers of arias."--Brian Turner, <em>A</em> <em>Phantom Noise</em></p><br>
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