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gagne's review against another edition
challenging
mysterious
tense
fast-paced
2.0
Very information-filled but not much emotion
xterminal's review
3.0
Linda Gregerson, Magnetic North (Houghton Mifflin, 2007)
I spent the first part of this book wondering what all the fuss was about, honestly; it's good, solid work, but there wasn't really anything that stood out, that really caused me to prick up my ears and take notice. Then, however, came the last section of the book. And when Magnetic North sings, it really takes off.
“You would/swear she hadn't a thought in her head/except for her buttermilk waffle and//its just proportion of jam. But while/she laughs and chews, half singing/with the lyrics on the radio, half//shrugging out of her bathrobe in the/kitchen warmth, she doesn't quite/complete the last part, one of the//sleeves—as though, you'd swear, she/couldn't be bothered—still covers/her arm. Which means you do not//see the cuts.” (“The Prodigal”)
It just goes along, and then whack, right in the face. But, as the poem goes on, there is nothing of castigation, nor-- and this is where it really gets interesting-- of curiosity. It just is; “she isn't stupid, she can see that we/who are children of plenty have no/excuse for suffering we//should be ashamed and so she is/and so she has produced this many-/layered hieroglyphic...”
If the entire volume had been at this level of intensity, it would have shot straight to the top of my beast reads of the year list. (Of course, it's highly probable that, in that case, no one else would have liked it all that much; such is the curse of being me.) I like its last twelve pages a great deal, however, and I'm certainly looking forward to seeing more of Linda Gregerson's work. ***
I spent the first part of this book wondering what all the fuss was about, honestly; it's good, solid work, but there wasn't really anything that stood out, that really caused me to prick up my ears and take notice. Then, however, came the last section of the book. And when Magnetic North sings, it really takes off.
“You would/swear she hadn't a thought in her head/except for her buttermilk waffle and//its just proportion of jam. But while/she laughs and chews, half singing/with the lyrics on the radio, half//shrugging out of her bathrobe in the/kitchen warmth, she doesn't quite/complete the last part, one of the//sleeves—as though, you'd swear, she/couldn't be bothered—still covers/her arm. Which means you do not//see the cuts.” (“The Prodigal”)
It just goes along, and then whack, right in the face. But, as the poem goes on, there is nothing of castigation, nor-- and this is where it really gets interesting-- of curiosity. It just is; “she isn't stupid, she can see that we/who are children of plenty have no/excuse for suffering we//should be ashamed and so she is/and so she has produced this many-/layered hieroglyphic...”
If the entire volume had been at this level of intensity, it would have shot straight to the top of my beast reads of the year list. (Of course, it's highly probable that, in that case, no one else would have liked it all that much; such is the curse of being me.) I like its last twelve pages a great deal, however, and I'm certainly looking forward to seeing more of Linda Gregerson's work. ***
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