by Kevin PruferKevin Prufer's articulate poems—wild, touching, darkly funny—suggest a world poised between nightmare and lucid dream, a place where memory, mortality, and their abandoned remnants recur in thoughtful, even obsessive, poetic reconfigurations. For Prufer, the wrecks of cars are “very sleepy...soft/in their rivets and rotted joints” (“Salvage Lot, Dusk”), but they are also bodies we manufacture, abstract versions of ourselves: in listening to “The black hearts of automobiles/under the hoods,” we hear our own dark hearts subject to fatal accident or chance. Prufer at times adopts the stance of scientific investigator, only to find that objective inquiry leads to its own dead ends: “Technophobic Sonnet,” for example, equates a small park’s demolition with a disk drive’s swift erasure. Several poems called “For the Dead” confirm Prufer’s destination, the deepest impulse of his work: “I am trying to sing a clearer song, don’t go” (“For the Dead: A Clearer Song”). That plea—for a listener’s attention, for all those elegized not to disappear—comes as the book achieves its beautiful, terrible final insights: “The dead are as an echo resounding off a wall/on which someone has painted the shapes of stars” (“Trompe L’Oeil”). Even as he makes strange a world grown too familiar, Prufer offers us a new one, beautiful and dangerous, in a voice both original and haunting.
|eBook format||Paperback, (torrent)|
|Publisher||Carnegie-Mellon University Press|
|File size||5 Mb|
|Book rating||4.13 (38 votes)