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oneillchris's review
5.0
Cecelia Hagen reveals how stubbornly simple life can be. She uses everyday phrases out of which the beauty of joy and the pain of vulnerability erupt with a natural poise. Her poems have music, poignancy, and balance while serving up the wisdom of embodied experience. One comes away realizing that everything is worth notice.
Here are three examples. The fruits of risk-taking shine through in "Blue Gloves."
I wore blue gloves
to make love.
Covering my fingertips,
my palms,
made each touch
an excursion.
Sometimes I'd put the gloves on
for a different reason,
wear them as I rode my bike
or drove to some party
full of near-strangers
and feel the same
sensation, a flagrant
indelicacy
that went unnoticed
by nearly everyone.
In "Flung," I can feel the momentum of a tree greening into itself.
What catapults the catalpa into that froth of blossoms, bone-white
knuckles sprouting pistils and stamens from freckled crevices
where bees kneel to glean what grains of mercy
can be obtained from pollen?
And how well Ms. Hagen demonstrates authorial honesty when reflecting on the competitive nature of some writers.
I understand you more or less
lost all respect for me
when I didn't understand
the raccoon metaphor
in that poem you sent.
. . . I'm dense in my own cocoon,
you know that too well.
What you don't see is your own
mummy bag, the way it cramps your style. Wait,
Hagen tells the hard truth, then redeems the moment with a bit of humor in the next line.
Here comes another raccoon!
Highly recommended. This is solid writing from a poet whose toes are scrunching in the humus.
Here are three examples. The fruits of risk-taking shine through in "Blue Gloves."
I wore blue gloves
to make love.
Covering my fingertips,
my palms,
made each touch
an excursion.
Sometimes I'd put the gloves on
for a different reason,
wear them as I rode my bike
or drove to some party
full of near-strangers
and feel the same
sensation, a flagrant
indelicacy
that went unnoticed
by nearly everyone.
In "Flung," I can feel the momentum of a tree greening into itself.
What catapults the catalpa into that froth of blossoms, bone-white
knuckles sprouting pistils and stamens from freckled crevices
where bees kneel to glean what grains of mercy
can be obtained from pollen?
And how well Ms. Hagen demonstrates authorial honesty when reflecting on the competitive nature of some writers.
I understand you more or less
lost all respect for me
when I didn't understand
the raccoon metaphor
in that poem you sent.
. . . I'm dense in my own cocoon,
you know that too well.
What you don't see is your own
mummy bag, the way it cramps your style. Wait,
Hagen tells the hard truth, then redeems the moment with a bit of humor in the next line.
Here comes another raccoon!
Highly recommended. This is solid writing from a poet whose toes are scrunching in the humus.
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