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Sorry, Tree Paperback – April 1, 2007

5 out of 5 stars 1 customer review

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Editorial Reviews

From Publishers Weekly

In her signature short, piercingly demotic lines, Myles (Skies) fiercely mines concatenated observations for the raw stuff: "it's like genitals/ I want to show you all these tiny parts." Myles has, by her own count, written "thousands of poems," and now finds information and aesthetic pleasure in almost anything: "I agree/ It's a good place to shit," or as a poem titled "Culture" puts it: "It accepts all/ marks & none/ So I'll just write/ into it." Myles's short descriptive bursts read like object lessons in an unfailing and unflinching fidelity to experience, which has its own rewards: "You are the candy melting/ in my mouth./ Is that a euphemism/ For what? Witnessing your love." One poem tries to delineate British and American English— "the words were never/the same again"; another tries to pin down involuntary convulsions of beauty—"Why is light/ so damn emotional/ if it's just/ a burning star." (Apr.)
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Review

"Myles is a poet with a history who writes about history, her personal history and our political history, and how the two intertwine and can't be separated, even if we might want them to." —Kathleen Rooney, Open Letters

"Sorry, Tree is a...funny title for a book. Especially for a book of poetry, that nervous species of writing that sometimes wonders whether it's worth the paper it's printed on. And especially for a book by Eileen Myles, whose poetry -whether it's about being lovesick or on a boat full of barfing people or surrounded by conservative zealots - is the opposite of apologetic. Historically speaking, Myles is the last stop of the New York School and the beginning of punk-rock poetry." —Brenden Kiley, The Stranger

"Myles’ poems feel as though they were written while moving and they’re good. The poems travel distances in line breaks and between words. The language has a pulse..." —Gina Myers, Octopus Magazine

"Sorry, Tree is flat out a terrific book, joining what seem to be the simplest personal poems with a poetic craft that dazzles." —Ron Silliman
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Product Details

  • Paperback: 83 pages
  • Publisher: Wave Books; 1St Edition edition (April 1, 2007)
  • Language: English
  • ISBN-10: 1933517204
  • ISBN-13: 978-1933517209
  • Product Dimensions: 5.5 x 0.3 x 9 inches
  • Shipping Weight: 4.8 ounces (View shipping rates and policies)
  • Average Customer Review: 5.0 out of 5 stars  See all reviews (1 customer review)
  • Amazon Best Sellers Rank: #544,740 in Books (See Top 100 in Books)

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Format: Paperback
I've been a fan of Eileen Myles for decades since I first saw her give a reading, with Michael Lally and Tim Dlugos so you know it's got to have been a long time ago.

She would tip her hat to people like John Wieners and James Schuyler but she was always herself, people dubbed her the female this or that (like "the female Ted Berrigan") but that wasn't what she was about. Everytime she was pegged she shrugged her shoulders like Samson and brought down the pegs and the ropes around her, and the roofs and the ceilings of the master's stone buildings. Her line could sometimes be "Schuyler-esque" (and in the new book there's even a Schuyleresque *title,* "April 7) but in the long body of history, I think, Schuyler will be seen to have forecast Myles, rather than have influenced her, because you can forecast the weather but how are you going to influence it--except with the evil global warming of which Jimmy S would have been incapable even in metaphor.

"A book is/ a web I suppose," writes Myles, in "Fifty-Three," but this isn't going to be one of those dreary poems about, what is a book? "A book is/ a web I suppose/ saying you come/ here to go/ out an/ incessant/ trembling bridge/ which a tree/ is/ I imagine." At first I thought the book, with that title, SORRY, TREE, was going be a wry apology for cutting down the tree to make the pulp onto which the book is spread, like jam. But hurray, that's not what the title is alluding to! (I read this part, with the lyrics of that Serge Gainsbourg tune skipping through my brain: "Sorry angel/ Sorry so.
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