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5.0 out of 5 stars
An anthology of sparsely worded free-verse poems, April 10, 2006
This review is from: Practice, Restraint (Paperback)
Practice, Restraint is an anthology of sparsely worded free-verse poems, steeped in the author's quintessential talent to imply volumes from brief phrases. Touching upon complex situations through the minute illumination of instants, Practice, Restraint resembles a haiku collection in spirit, though it does not employ the haiku format specifically. "Moses": Fourteen lanes / with sky on one end // and the end / of the human disgrace / on the other- // a fetish, the urban form // a lake / is self-regard but a highway / slithers // the car // grows skin after skin on its errand from God // If you finish your supper, / from one end of this mess to the other, / rewards
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5.0 out of 5 stars
Practice Makes Perfect, April 12, 2006
This review is from: Practice, Restraint (Paperback)
I saw Laura Sims read over the weekend and I was drawn to buying her book, PRACTICE, RESTRAINT, winner of the Fence award. Physically the book is quite handsome, sort of: it has a fantastic photo by Laurie Simmons on the cover (sort of the same name as the poet, just jumbled a little, and with a longer history of making art) from 25 years ago, a studio built construction of a tiny boy navigating great channels of blue water, like the climax of SPLENDOR IN THE GRASS in which Natalie Wood tries to drown herself. And the book comes bound in one of those covers with the book flaps that turn back in on themselves, I forget what they're called, but they always seem so classy. On the down side, the paper itself looks like the kind used for coloring books in Communist countries.
Sims reads very slowly, as though drawn into the sound of her own voice, sometimes responding as though hypnotized, and the poetry reads that way too. The writing itself is lean, spare, plucked of fat. The manuscript opens with "lost Book" and one almost feels that this describes the present book, it's been somehow lost, so that the poems continue, torn and tattered as Barbara Frietchie's gray flag, but we are left to piece together the significance of what once happened from the remnants that stutter across each page. "Have I seen such a tower" it begins, provocatively, and a few lines down we hear of a "tower of ash where the hearth wound down." You can't help but think of the poem, trailing down the page, as visually resembling such a tower, a tower of ash with much of its life burnt out by exigency and winter chill.
Sims isn't exactly begging for sympathy however. There's a fair amount of humor in her book as well. On the back of the book Cole Swensen refers to the leaps of Sims' rhetoric as "always oblique, and always uncannily precise." That's true to a certain degree but sometimes the leaps aren't oblique, but click like billiard balls (indeed I think of Rube Goldberg as well as Laurie Simmons when I imagine their construction)-and yet finally, at the end of the poem, I wonder how precise the poems wind up being. They don't have the "Gotcha" effect of Lorine Niedecker or Elizabeth Bishop. I think they play in a fuzzier land, like she's high all the time. "The great city waits for an echoing crack." I know that's true where I live!
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