By Eve Alexandra
Infrequent in any age is figure which includes a ardour for adventure, a dedication to fact, a capability to plumb the irrational, and a fluency in poetic language and track that may paintings via these kinds of tangled thickets, yet Eve Alexandra does simply that? this can be real poetry; it instantly takes its position as a player within the tremendous old voice which composes poetry, a voice which includes ten-thousand tones, yet which takes not anything until eventually itself which doesn't resonate, as do the poems of The Drowned lady, with authenticity and fervor. C. ok. Williams, pass judgement on. one of many issues i locate compelling approximately Eve Alexandra's poems is that, whereas the narrator is seductive and gorgeous, she isn't entertaining. She doesn't supply convenience. She isn't really form of solicitous. Like Ariel, who plays the tempest for Prospero, Alexandra, too, is a tempest-res: those are the storms and drownings of her personal invention.
Like Ariel's bedeviling and lovely tunes composed to tease the unhappy, those are poems of the taunt and tease, the razor within the apple. Lynn Emmanuel. whatever shiny and reflective, anything lucid and exacting flickers on the middle of this fleshy, unique debut. Is it a needle? Is it a scalpel? Is it a scythe? Is it the switchblade a girl may perhaps hold in her handbag? Eve Alexandra wields a young, sharp honesty. The traces minimize and cube, arc and glimmer within the gentle of her lyricism and intelligence. those poems will open you, make you bleed, make you ask yourself.
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Extra resources for The Drowned Girl
It truly is looking out the ground like a hand interpreting the ground of the pond. She remains down there decades. She works not easy. She works till her face glows like a halo, cyanotic. Her eyes pearl and gleam. She isn't a mechanic, she is a computing device. She is the change flicked on, the move. Oh convinced, she will swim now. within the blue water, she is a swan. and there's a promise. A promise circling like a wing within her. Heroine Needle to string. Scythe to wheat. Foot to pedal. Hammer and sickle. paintings, paintings, paintings. She has 3 sisters. At nightfall she beverages tea. From the silver stomach of a samovar. at the hours of darkness she beverages vodka. She takes a lover who smells of clean meat and the pines. the quest is on him, like his tongue at the crest of her intercourse. just like the little woodland of white down on her breasts. at the nape of her neck. A starvation grows. Grows within her. observe: She isn't really hungry for him. he's a symptom of that starvation. An empty cup she may possibly retain replenishing. A clue: bread crust, apple middle, chook bone. Wish-bone. understanding 3 languages is a lifeless luxurious during this city. a type of undesirable appendage. A 6th finger. She can’t bear in mind the Italian for window. She climbs the ceilings. The water spouts. She eats strawberries, utilizing her lips like a blind lady makes use of her arms. Little fit lady. Little lamb. Little shoe. Black boot. Achoo. a bit crimson wine? crimson using Hood. all of the larger to work out you with. To learn you with, my expensive. keep on with. Over the river. throughout the woods To the ocean. Knees deep within the salty water. To the island of Crete. To Tunis. To Florence. To Russia. To Moscow. ultimately. eventually, you are saying, to Moscow. she's going to arrive on that web page. That ultimate degree of trajectory. Of future. vacation spot. She is best suited. attractive. Oh child. She is Little leave out Adjective. she is going to put on her top black costume. Sings a gentle tune whilst she walks. Syllables of silk, of organza and tulle say Hush, we're nearly at “The finish. ” She wears a veil of Swiss lace. genuine, they acknowledged concerning the lace she used to be donning. Little accents, little umlauts, tiny apostrophes like snowflakes sting her cheeks. She doesn't blush. She makes the signal of the pass. She makes a date. With starvation. With the nice black cloak of a teach. yet this time she doesn’t lie down. She refuses to make her mattress. To spill her blood like young ones. She doesn’t set herself on hearth. She won’t signal her identify or spell you her secrets and techniques. She won’t uncross her legs. She opens her mouth as a substitute. She opens her mouth and he or she. She eats. She eats all of it: porters, nannies with infants, the tracks, the coal, the iron, the ore. She dines for pages, for chapters. consuming paper, consuming the candy black ink, wiping her mouth on her sleeve. Then she eats her most sensible black gown and so she is bare. And so she is massive. And it's you, it really is you she is maintaining like an open publication, good enjoyed, in her fingers. notice “The Wake” includes traces from Anne Sexton’s “Flee in your Donkey” and “Song for a pink Nightgown.