From Publishers Weekly
"How little it took to turn me sentimental. How little it takes me still." Verbatim dialogue, laconic musings, self-interruptions, givings-up and quiet goings-on all mark Lea's seventh collection, following the new & selected To the Bone, the well-received novel A Place in Mind and the naturalist essays of Hunting the Whole Way Home. Lea's plainspoken New England voice has benefited from its multi-genre development, making the poems here easy in diction, resistant to lyric flights and focused on making sense of things. As he notes above, however, the poet refuses to deny his more emotive side, which is alternately a strength and a weakness here. It is what lays behind the restless political energy of "Our Camp '63 ("the fucked-up notion that a summer church day camp allowed/ us to do something to help a nation in its narcosis rectify/ the deaths, countless, in bilge-watery choleric slave ships and what followed// and follows ") but is also behind the many rigid attempts at giving the poems a sense of closure, as when "Authority" talks of a storekeeper who would "wave his flipper and talk on local matters/ (though he'd never let the meat get overcooked)" and ends "Full above our river, the moon appears/ authoritative. Grins from ear to ear." The verse's scaled-back ambitions at such moments nevertheless give Lea's everyday characters--"Mack" on a visit to "the fancy new clinic"; "the warden cop and vet" who all report "the coon must be destroyed"; "thousands of pumpkins in Wally Morse's fields"; and the poet himself among many others--credible voices and fittingly modest appeal.
Copyright 2000 Cahners Business Information, Inc.
From Library Journal
The "wound" in the title of this seventh collection by Lea (former editor of the New England Reviewer) refers to the "palimpsest of ruin" on which he writes every new poem. Lea anatomizes car wrecks, burnings, dysfunctional families, and victims of stroke and cancer, "the wide world's wealth of wrong." Like his mentor Frost, Lea vividly contextualizes these tragedies in his beloved rural New England, a vanishing place of sumac, evergreens, snowy ridges, rock bass, and grouse. Never sentimental or mawkishly confessional, he writes honestly about his own loss of hearing and insomnia and his need for "happy pills" (Zoloft). Lea is equally comfortable, it seems, with tragedy or beauty, and therein lies his considerable strength. As he says, "I just like the life of which each detail is eloquent." Written in a new style of verse blocks and prose poetry, this is a highly moving and accessible work, strongly recommended for all larger poetry collections.DDaniel L. Guillory, Millikin Univ., Decatur, IL
Copyright 2000 Reed Business Information, Inc.