From Publishers Weekly
Maris' agreeable, if at times insubstantial, first outing explores not suffering (as in the Biblical Job) but occupations: vocations, professions, trades, ways to work for a living, and the nature of works of art. Her verbal flourishes fit the topic well: "What is work anyway," she asks, "but a turgid mirror// whose revelations quiver/ in recalculation?" Maris' roster of roles includes locksmiths and bankers, opera singers and beggars, Greek Orthodox priests and George Stephanopolous, a "Boiler Repairman" who frightens the author despite his best intentions, "the woman in a ticket booth/ who lives in my left ventricle," a "Professor of Sadness," and an admirable "Veronese waiter/ on a cruise ship," "his art: the art of perceiving want/ even before its germination." Her urbane language keeps its center in Manhattan, with side trips to the Netherlands, Greece, Italy, Brazil: the poet also depicts museums and the family home, where she becomes "mother to all that is bare, all that is gone," and (less dramatically) as the mother of a young son. Witty at best, flighty at worst, Maris' verse has the feel of charcoal sketches, well-defined and rapidly executed, with blank space where the perceiver's eye can take hold.
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Review
Kathryn Maris's title, The Book of Jobs, refers not to afflicted heroes of the Hebrew Bible, nor to Apple's Steve, but simply to occupations: The "book of jobs" at a university career center that a liberal arts major might consult when she is, as Maris writes, "unemployed in a world of employment." Or, at least, might've consulted until recently, before the multicolored flyers and faxed announcements all moved online. And if today's students might be amused at the quaintness of Maris's image, well, her poems don't primarily address them. Instead, they address the putatively more adult problem of waking up one morning "bloated with identity," when one meets "again and again the same conflict." Maris writes in a lyric mode, with quiet wit and a self-consciously wise perspective joined with a good eye for detail. (You're not likely to forget the "unexpecting face" of a man knocked "somersaulting . . . /above a hood.") And if that sounds a little dull, that seems to be part of her point: These are workaday poems, and their insight or appeal will depend on whether one recognizes oneself in work, "a turgid mirror/whose revelations quiver/in recalculation:/we are something today;/we are nothing today./We are something today;/we are nothing tomorrow." The reverberating r in these lines makes audible Maris's central aim of downshifting, as it were, from "revelation" to "recalculation." --Bookslut