From Library Journal
Green's four long pastoral poems (modern adaptations of the eclogue) combine family memories, local history of the river Squanicook (in Massachusetts), evocative Keatsian imagery ("a tree frog in the apple,/ a kit fox dozing in the brush"), and botanically accurate sketches: "rusty dogwood, tiled in ragged, reptilian plates . . . with its fuschia-colored, knuckled nodes." Compassion for her father, joy in crafted verse, and fidelity to place shine through stilted embellishments: "Ceremonious maples don the cardinal robes of kings." She works in the spirit of the craftsmen ("housewrights") who built the clapboard, mortise-and-tenon, soffits, wainscot, and floors "like planks of gold" of her ancestors. "This verse I've tried to plane/ for strangers . . . this home I build, the labor of my life." Frank Allen, Assoc. Dean. , Continuing Education, Allentown Coll., Center Valley, Pa.
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Review
Here, by the grace and wisdom of the language in which rhyme rhymes with time, comes the poet who commits everything she touches to your memory ... In these eclogues, the New England flora seems to have finally acquired the power of speech. --Nobel Prize winner Joseph Brodsky
Responsibility and delight are the tone of the true poet, a joy in the craft that supercedes its themes, however afflicted, and on every page of this book Melissa Green's reverential elations uplift and soothe the reader as naturally and cleanly as the morning wind. --Nobel Prize winner Derek Walcott
No other young poet is so contented, so thrilled, merely to catalogue nature's changes, or to craft them into a deliberately turned formal verse that takes an almost shocked delight in its own daring. --William Logan, The New York Times
Responsibility and delight are the tone of the true poet, a joy in the craft that supercedes its themes, however afflicted, and on every page of this book Melissa Green's reverential elations uplift and soothe the reader as naturally and cleanly as the morning wind. --Nobel Prize winner Derek Walcott
No other young poet is so contented, so thrilled, merely to catalogue nature's changes, or to craft them into a deliberately turned formal verse that takes an almost shocked delight in its own daring. --William Logan, The New York Times