From Publishers Weekly
Starred Review. Anyone with doubts about the place of politics in poetry should have this book thrust in his hands. Prufer (
Fallen from a Chariot) makes the political personal and the personal political, all in the service of sinuous, moving free verse. He has a rare gift for bringing the inanimate to life on the page. The American West becomes a drifter on a raft, his chest brown and flecked with hair, and the title poem begins with a shopping center calling out like a lover. Elsewhere, ancient Rome, its empire in slow, steady decline, is found curled on a pew, asleep, a haunting parallel for contemporary America. Poetry—a possible source of salvation?—is a boy locked in a car's trunk, screaming and refusing to die. And there are people in these poems, too: a speaker who writes love notes he describes as empty and vaguely/ sad. Dead children, soldiers and those left behind in an evacuation speak and are spoken about. An absurdly large parachute falls over a suburb, and the speaker writes letters to his lover while trying to find his way out from under it. Near the end of the book, Prufer writes, I don't know what to do/ with the doomed, the chilled over and gone,/ but drink until my fingers become twigs. This powerful collection, Prufer's fourth, is an ongoing elegy for a dark time in American history
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Review
"Anyone with doubts about the place of politics in poetry should have this book thrust in his hands. Prufer (*Fallen from a Chariot*) makes the political personal and the personal political, all in the service of sinuous, moving free verse. He has a rare gift for bringing the inanimate to life on the page...This powerful collection, Prufer's fourth, is an ongoing elegy for a dark time in American history."--Publishers Weekly
"The America of Prufer's fourth collection is an empire in decline, a medicated landscape ("snow / like little tranquilizers all over the yard") peopled by pilgrims to shopping malls. The book opens with a panoramic vision of the aftermath of apocalypse--"expired" cars, silenced TVs, coffins "unmoored and happy with the storm"--but ends intimately, with a child's memory of his first encounter with death; the thin wire between political failure and personal grief runs taut throughout. In the eerie centerpiece poem, the suburbs are sealed under an enormous parachute, its nylon shimmering; icicles line the seams and crash into the streets, and the narrator walks for days, never finding the edge."--New Yorker
*Verdict:* This book is dedicated to the poet's father and traces, movingly, that tenuous connection. Recommended for contemporary poetry collections. *Background:* The author of four books of poetry (e.g., *Fallen from a Chariot*) and coeditor of the important anthology *New European Poets*, Prufer here continues to grapple with human suffering, smudging the border between real and surreal in a kind of imagined poetry of witness: two strangers comb a ravaged war site in search of food, a man who personifies the American West sleeps on a raft, Caesars fill the hospital beds. In the title poem, the speaker waits in a parking lot while his companion finishes shopping: "What was the body but a vessel, and what was the store but another,/ larger vessel?" Often, things are inside of other things: a body inside a car trunk or a man beneath a spread parachute that covers an entire neighborhood. At the core is a boy's fear of the unknown: "My brother cried at dinner when he learned/ one day he would die. I picked at my food/ and wanted to be a chip on the wall/ or a spot that would not wash away."--Ellen Kaufman, Dewey & LeBoeuf Law Lib., New York, Library Journal