Atsiliepimai
Aprašymas
Each of these brilliant epistolary poems is a surrealist landscape-blurred beginnings, sorrowful endings, archetypes tangled in the roots of trees-where everything is held together by a speaker who is reading letters culled from a just-opened time capsule. Each poem captures the complexity of the interwoven effects of distance, of loss, of the intricate links to the never-ending African diaspora. And behind each is the Mother-as land, as bloodline, as birth, as the lightning strike that indelibly scars the earth's surface. Reading them is like seeing a forest on fire through an unwavering lens: the splintering, the displacement, the metallic rasp of time as the trees are erased. The effect is mesmerizing and lacerating: "There is no hymn, just history, history." -Mary Jo Bang
Each of these brilliant epistolary poems is a surrealist landscape-blurred beginnings, sorrowful endings, archetypes tangled in the roots of trees-where everything is held together by a speaker who is reading letters culled from a just-opened time capsule. Each poem captures the complexity of the interwoven effects of distance, of loss, of the intricate links to the never-ending African diaspora. And behind each is the Mother-as land, as bloodline, as birth, as the lightning strike that indelibly scars the earth's surface. Reading them is like seeing a forest on fire through an unwavering lens: the splintering, the displacement, the metallic rasp of time as the trees are erased. The effect is mesmerizing and lacerating: "There is no hymn, just history, history." -Mary Jo Bang
Atsiliepimai