Beyond the World of the Event: Sumita Chakraborty On Katie Ford’s Colosseum

Colosseum, Katie Ford, Graywolf Press


In an essay titled Against Sincerity from her collection of essays Proofs & Theories: Essays on Poetry, Louise Glück writes that poetic truth is importantly distinguishable from “honesty and sincerity.” She explains that honesty and sincerity connote a sense of “‘telling the truth,’ which is not necessarily the path to illumination.” She offers a definition of “actuality”—“the world of the event”—and goes on to suggest that:

When we speak of honesty, in relation to poems, we mean the degree to which and the power with which the generating impulse has been transcribed. Transcribed, not transformed.

On the contrary, the “true” is something quite different: it is “the embodied vision, illumination, or enduring discovery which is the ideal of art”:

The true has about it an air of mystery or imperceptibility. This mystery is an attribute of the elemental: art of the kind I mean to describe will seem the furthest concentration or reduction or clarification of its substance; it cannot be further refined without being changed in its nature. It is essence, ore, wholly unique, and therefore comparable to nothing. No “it” will have existed before; what will have existed are other instances of like authenticity.


The true, in poetry, is felt as insight. It is very rare, but beside it other poems seem merely intelligent comment.

No matter what the poet has seen or lived, those experiences alone cannot merely be placed onto the page in order to create a compelling poem. The stuff of what happened, what happens, and what is happening serve only to prompt the poet into conversation, and in order to enter the realm of the true—the mysterious, the imperceptible, the refined, the insightful, the vision embodied, the discovery—those narrative particulars must undergo a crucial transformation from fact into art. Based on Glück’s compelling analysis, I wonder, too, if a successful poem in fact operates on three levels. Lurking behind it is the trigger (what Glück refers to as the “generating impulse”); on the page lives that impulse molded and crafted into verse; and within that crafted verse lies the insight.


Katie Ford’s second volume Colosseum enacts the transformation from actuality to insight in, fittingly, three sections. Her trigger is Hurricane Katrina and all that followed (and still follows) for the city of New Orleans, and Ford’s admirable poetic accomplishment is that she does not simply rely upon those events alone to propel her book. Such a subject that could easily coax a poet into submission and prompt them to believe that the event is all that is needed to create the poem. Instead, in Ford’s hands, we feel as though we have stumbled upon a discovery, upon illuminations. The three sections of Colosseum function as the three levels of a poem: the first, entitled Storm, presents the trigger in a jarring, exact, and stimulating fashion. The second, entitled Vessel, begins with a quotation from Marina Tsvetaeva, which informs us that “to want is what bodies do / and now we are ghosts only,” and fully demonstrates the poet’s capacity for transforming the event into the poem—in short, the Storm enters the Vessel. The third, entitled Colosseum itself, is the volume’s climax, its large discovery.


Not only does Ford’s three-act book effectively manifest the process of approaching what is “true” in poetry, particularly in relation to the specificities of her trigger, but her individual poems often do the same. Take, for example, her short poem Ark from the first section, Storm:

We love the stories of the flood and the few

told to prepare us in advance by their god.

In that story, the saved are

always us, meaning:

whoever holds the book.

Here, the word “flood” is not the sum total of the poem’s objective. It enacts the same purpose that the flood of Hurricane Katrina enacted for the poet: to generate this poem. Correspondingly, the word “flood,” placed in the first line of Ark, generates the rest of the text. Coupled with the many storied references evoked by its title, this poem asks us to consider the rising of water as a backdrop for what will emerge. Ark is elegantly crafted into succinct, graceful verse: it has been carefully meditated upon, and everything unnecessary has been excised. The event has been named, appraised, and turned into verse, and what will follow is an exploration of the after-event; not a rehashing of the actualities or, necessarily, an “honest” response, but the “true”—the “insight.”


As the trigger—the first level of a poem’s operation—instantly arises in the beginning of the poem, it is fitting that the insight lies toward the poem’s end. The phrase “the book” in the last line and the saving of those who hold it in the penultimate line are not only Biblical references, but also more global ones, referencing all of those books that each of “us” would consider the book. To be sure, the Biblical tonality is significant here; yet, I believe that even more significant is the quiet universality implied by the lowercase “b” in the word “book.” Ford does not limit the definition of the phrase “the book” to “the Book”—instead, she allows for a broader resonance. This is the discovery, the insight that lifts the poem beyond the world of stories told “in advance,” beyond the world of “the flood”: those who hold the book are the ones who will be saved, and those people are “always us.”


This insight itself speaks to the existence of Colosseum: out of this flood, the survivors emerge clutching books. In this fashion, Ford’s volume enters a dialogue with itself. The discovery in Ark is one of many in Colosseum. Ford does not fall into the trap of providing her reader with a way to pin her down with ease: her illuminations are varied in tonality and content, exploring a vast arena of aftereffects and ruminations. To return to the significance of the volume’s broader structure, consider the several other poems in the first section of the volume, Storm. The poem Tell Us is prompted by the moments before the eye of the hurricane hit New Orleans. It informs that “the barest accident of you // will stand before its organized eye / therefore ready yourself // but do not panic / you cannot be ready[.]” Another short poem, Earth, is only four lines long: “If you respect the dead / and recall where they died / by this time tomorrow / there will be nowhere to walk.”  Fish Market asks, “What is there now to eat?”


All of these poems illustrate the trigger. Like Ark, they certainly possess illuminations. However, largely, their central action is to inundate us in the word of the “organized eye,” the starvation, the flooding, the streets filled with the dead. The first section’s turning point occurs with the poem Vessel, which shares its name with the second section of the book all the while residing in the first. Vessel reads as a sort of ars poetica: “We were hardly vessels / what we took in could not be,” Ford writes:

and so we spat it out as dogs spit out

the wretched fish the only meat


we were not mules

though we put stores on our backs


half-finished stories

thin mothers in frames


we were never vessels

but I wanted so much to be and swallow and

Vessel discusses the experience of having ingested something “wretched”—indeed, of having the “wretched” be the “only meat” available—and of putting “stores” of “half-finished stories” on “our backs.” It deals with the questions: What happens to the event? Who is the poet in relation to the event? Most importantly, it does not provide an answer: the question, the mystery, and the intrigue are left intact. We know what has been “wanted,” but want itself is an enigma. We know what we “were not”: “mules,” “vessels.” What we do not know is how the event—that “wretched fish”—transforms into the poem when it enters the poet, and this question is compelling enough to handle the weight of the second section of Colosseum. The poem Vessel tells us that the second movement of the book is about to begin. Ford’s attention turns from the trigger to the poem: instead of focusing most heavily on the storm, we will consider its vessel.


In the second section, Ford’s typographical decisions become riskier as if to explore not only the question of how actualities become truths but also the question of how the form of a poem can contribute to the eventual goal of an insight. Correspondingly, the first poem of this section The Shape of Us references a continued narrative question of the shape of the body and the land, as well as uses the inclusive pronoun “us” to imply that the title also concerns the shape of the poem. “Something please tell me I’m wrong / about impermanence,” pleads the speaker. The next poem, Crossing America, is written in tight couplets; Division, which follows, is a successful, carefully strung prose poem. The Vessel Bends the Water features lines that themselves bend around indents, and Koi curls similarly. (Note, too, that the title of The Vessel Bends the Water continues to prod at the questions asked by the earlier poem Vessel from the section Storm: how does the poet—the vessel—bend the event—the water?) Spring Wish makes good use of an Emily Dickinson quotation as an epigraph: “As from the Earth the light Balloon / Asks nothing but release—,” from Dickinson’s poem numbered 1630. Dickinson’s full poem follows:

As from the Earth the light Balloon

Asks nothing but release—

Ascension that for which it was,

Its soaring Residence.

The spirit looks upon the Dust

That fastened it so long

With indignation,

As a Bird

Defrauded of its song.


In “As from the Earth the light Balloon,” Dickinson issues a mandate: she urges us to allow our balloons to lift above the “Dust”—to, so to speak, let our minds transcend the actualities. Ford’s invocation of this particular Dickinson poem is more than simply an epigraph. From this point forward, Ford’s poems are highly conscious of Dickinson’s earlier text. In Spring Wish, Ford writes:

It is a far wish, a spring wish,

and so the people of the parade let go of

balloons they dreamt were their minds,

not the minds they woke to find writing in the gravel,

but rising tangerine minds, porcelain white, blue

of a sky in which to be absolutely lost.

So much pleasure I remember

when mine slipped from sight

but could be imagined almost perfectly and gone,

warm on the string where I’d held it.

From Cemetery:

The anticipatory lack inked onto whatever page

was left of us. We sat in the middle of it: trespass.

We laid down in the middle of it: falsity.

When you touched me,

I felt nothing. The day so beautiful

it struck me across the face.

“As from the Earth the light Balloon” influences both of these poems. Spring Wish specifically speaks of “rising tangerine minds” in opposition to “the minds” that we find “writing in the gravel”; “the people of the parade” release their balloons and dream themselves transformed. In Cemetery, the mind is uneasy on the ground: when it is “inked onto whatever page” was left, it feels itself a trespasser and a falsity. We watch as, with the help of Dickinson’s poem, the circumstances described in the first section of Colosseum morph into the yearnings of the second. We watch as the relatively steadfast formal style of the first section becomes the mélange of styles in the second, and as crucial inquiries tease along the pages.


According to my suggestions that the third level on which every poem operates is the insight and that Ford’s volume embodies this three-fold approach, the third section of the book should manifest the idea of the true. It does. By titling both the volume and its third section Colosseum, Ford implies that in this section, we will see evidence of how the trigger, which has already become the poem, becomes the volume’s central illuminations. The third section takes the local seeds from which the book originates and begins to trace its still-warm string through global landscapes. In the section’s first poem Overture, we hear language of “dynasty,” “paper lanterns,” and “calligraphy”; of “persimmons and pomegranate”; of “flooded rice fields” and a “stoic, unconvinced world.” In Overture, Ford’s speaker concludes the poem by addressing the world—not one person, not a deity, not a natural phenomenon, and not the reader: “My stoic, unconvinced world, / world of the paper heart, / is it that you don’t know grief / or haven’t had enough of it / that you let yourself / be governed so?”


After Overture, Ford presents the book’s long poem, which is also its title poem—nestled in the title section. It is not, as long poems go, a very lengthy example: it runs for four pages and features seven sections, all but two of which have only one stanza apiece. It is carefully paced to expand further the book’s purview from the one tragedy it is based upon to a world of tragedies. This action can easily go awry: by continuing to expand the focus of the text, the volume runs the risk of feeling extraneous, as though a hodgepodge of places and things have been melded together to provide the book with a larger purpose. Yet, Ford avoids that particular trap: her language continues to be scrupulous and precise, and, to quote from Spring Wish, although New Orleans has largely “slipped from sight” in this last section, Ford’s poems force the triggering subject to remain “warm on the string” where she—and therefore we—have “held it.”

I said to myself: Beyond my husband there are strange trees

growing on one of the seven hills.

They look like intricately tended bonsais, but

enormous and with unreachable hollows.

He takes photographs for our black folios,

thin India paper separating one from another.

There is no scientific evidence of consciousness

lasting outside the body. I think when I die

it will be completely.

The above selection is the fourth part of the poem Colosseum, and it demonstrates the broader reach that I have spoken about such as the “bonsais,” the “thin India paper,” the discussion of “consciousness / lasting outside the body” and what it is to die, as opposed to dying “completely.” I do not mean to suggest that Ford’s earlier sections did not have as weighty an impact as the third; they certainly did. Ford’s individual poems as we have seen each contain their own illuminations. I do believe, however, it to be the case that because this third section embodies the concept of illumination itself, its illuminations are larger. It is as though we have been offered small, glowing lamps throughout the book, and now, here, in the section Colosseum of the book Colosseum in particularly in the poem Colosseum, we receive one large lamp with several filaments all deeply glowing. While our memories retain what Glück calls “world of the event”—Ford makes sure they do, even bringing up New Orleans by name in the poem Snakes—we have, in fact, left it.


One of the most remarkable poems in the third section is Duomo, a title that refers to the Italian cathedrals of fame and has strong tonal echoes of the word “dome” (like the Louisiana Superdome in which thousands of Katrina refugees were housed in the aftermath). In fact, Ford uses the word “dome” in the poem: “The aurora / was beautiful on those killing spirals, quiet / as maize-light on the apostles / settled in caverns of the great dome / built on the copper edge of the middle ages.” True to form, even the “dome” is not just a “dome”: it comes from the “copper edge” (a unique yet sharply accurate descriptor) “of the middle ages.” Ford’s way of leaving—or, more accurately, transforming—the world of the immediate while reminding us of its significance resonates in every moment of Duomo:

But we move unhearing, unheard, in cruel

ambiguity beneath the amber-letting trees

draping house to house,

weeping down the thought

of yellow morning—

                                    how yellow will come

over everything, over you and me

as we wake, over a Florence gone,

unreachable to us now—gone the bridge

that survived the war,

its diamond shops and paperies,

paisley waterspills curved over parchment

how oils seeped out o the ghost rigs

and left slow blankets over egrets and gulls feeding

on the blackened cargo of the surface.

                                                               The aurora

was beautiful on those killing spirals, quiet

as maize-light . . .  

Duomo makes good use of the formal experiments that took place in Colosseum’s second section—it has a bit of the prose poem of Division and features the indents tested in The Vessel Bends the Water and Koi. Duomo is the epitome of the multi-filamented illumination of which I spoke earlier: it draws upon Florence, upon the aurora borealis, upon a vast world of images and poetic traditions, the feeling of the event warm on our hands, that event magicked into the poem, that poem lifted into, as Glück says, an “air of mystery or imperceptibility.”


I wrote this review in late August and early September, and I couldn’t help being struck by the fact that as I wrote, a new hurricane—Hurricane Gustav—was making its way toward New Orleans. A New York Times article that was recent at the time mentioned a woman who spent two days in her attic during Hurricane Katrina: “‘I’d rather play it safe than sorry,’ she said, ‘because I know what sorry feels like.’” (“If you respect the dead / and recall where they died / by this time tomorrow / there will be nowhere to walk,” writes Ford in one poem. In another: “What is there now to eat?” “My stoic, unconvinced world,” she says in another; she speaks of a “reckoning so slow you aren’t even frightened” in yet another. “Where will the water be? I whisper. / Where won’t it be, it answers.”) The book’s parting words:

Deadly to believe a heaven

might include you.


You had a heaven.

You were its gods.

These lines turn us back to the poem Ark, in which the phrase “the book” is used (with that telling lowercase “b”)—by calling each individual “you” its own Pantheon. This is how Ford transforms the actualities into the truth: the localized becomes global, the singular becomes plural, the mortals become their own gods, and all books are the book. Ford’s meticulous and evocative framework asks us to consider the process of creating a poem even as her texts refuse to surrender the palpable sensation of its circumstances. “I wanted so much to be and to swallow,” Ford writes, crafting her volume in a manner that asks, repeatedly, how the poem can be made.







I have cited extensively from two books: one, of course, is Katie Ford’s Colosseum (Minnesota: Graywolf Press, 2008), and the other is Louise Glück’s Proofs & Theories: Essays on Poetry (New Jersey: Ecco Press, 1994). All of the quotations from Proofs & Theories come from the essay Against Sincerity, which can be found on pages 33 – 45 of the book.


I also quote an Emily Dickinson poem, poem number 1630, from The Complete Poems of Emily Dickinson, ed. Thomas Johnson (Boston: Little, Brown and Company, 1890).


Finally, the New York Times article that I reference can be found online, at the following URL:

“Is Stuffed, De World: On Connie Voisine’s Rare High Meadow of Which I Might Dream” by Sumita Chakraborty


Connie Voisine, Rare High Meadow of Which I Might Dream, University of Chicago Press 


            At its best, Connie Voisine’s Rare High Meadow of Which I Might Dream is a probing second volume from a gripping poet. Two of the book’s strongest poems are also among its shortest: “The Invisible Man Remained” (which charges into visibility with the word “invisible”) and “Love Poem” (which features careful tercets, ending with a proclamation about animals, who, according to Voisine, “believed this pour / was absorbed by the grasses and trees, geraniums, / air, and see how much and why I lose myself to you”).

            Too, I find myself enjoying Voisine’s typographical experiments: instead of feeling contrived, as formatting idiosyncrasies sometimes feel, Voisine’s demonstrate a useful relationship between form and content that well serves each poem that they are employed in. Take, for example, the following selection from a stanza in “The Bird is Her Reason”:


                                    You must know

                        how, in adulterous love,

                                    one begins to feel fatal, beautiful. The edges of your body

            become a tense meniscus and

                        in a kind of pain you fear this love

            can only lead to death—


            In this selection, not only do the carefully strung lines well embody the sense of “a tense meniscus,” but the word “death,” too, is effectively enacted by the dash that follows it. This language is meticulously selected: for instance, the word “pain” is usefully modified by the phrase “a kind of,” resulting in a tone that is capable of sustaining loaded words like “love,” “fatal,” “beautiful,” “body,” “death,” and even “pain” itself. This tone is significantly bolstered by Voisine’s formatting decisions. The narrative and the lyric merge here: we are always conscious that a story is being told, but the white space nestled within that story draws our attention to the silences that breed it and the well-developed lines it contains.

            At its weakest, though, Voisine’s otherwise captivating volume slips into belabored meandering. While the weaker poems in the volume do manage to display Voisine’s able grasp of the narrative poem, their shortcoming lies in the way that their reader can feel their muscles strain: the conjunction between the narrative and the lyric, in other words, is not always fully realized. Lines like, “The world was a dark scroll unrolling beneath / and the plane could become a vehicle you’d use / the way a gnat uses its wings, with a three-dimensional / fluidity and the world might feel to you / the way water must feel to a dolphin” (from “The Early Days of Aviation”) puff up, filling with the audible effort to portray a sense of the vast and crucial.

            The reason these few bloated lines strike such a discordant note is that many of Voisine’s poems do effectively convey this sense: the feeling that to read them is to teeter dangerously close to an important revelation. When Voisine successfully accomplishes this—as, in fact, she does often—it is when she does not seem to be trying, as is the case through much of “WeatherCam—the Horizon,” which begins unassumingly:


On the ten o’clock news, the weatherman replays the florid day on a loop

filed from the top of the News Center Building, plays and super speeds


that whole day. Suppose he played the real one—the man at the Rainbow Mart

singing country with K-BUL . . .


            We know that we are reading something quite important: yet, we are not overtly told what it is. After this opening, Voisine embarks on a lengthy catalogue, which falters in a quasi-Whitmanian landscape—although, unlike Whitman’s, Voisine’s catalogues seem unnecessary. In the stage setting of “WeatherCam—the Horizon,” there are “wet rotten leaves pulled from beds of irises in the alleyway” and there is “chaos blooming,” nestled amidst “the marrying of ketchups” and “the polishing of shoes,” drumming home—with perhaps a few more strokes of the hammer than necessary—the greater sense of an “undoing.” After a certain point that is fittingly punctuated by the word “undoing,” this poem loses itself in its megaphone, completing its overwrought terrain with a “newscaster who weeps while she announces: there are babies / just unburied, alive, you can claim them at the corner of . . .”

            The subsequent stanza slides by, and after it, Voisine deftly recaptures the reader’s attention with a sharp dash, which is followed by a new stanza that begins with the word “no”:


no, he shows us the day from the point of view of the WeatherCam,

pointed at the horizon: a narrow cloud or two whizzes by,


the blue shifts in place like a woman who cannot bear her

body, and we are overcome by how even these sterling, western


heavens change, how at dusk the traffic below stills to a bright sluice

as the sun abandons its chase—the skyscrapers, the highways,


the glowing dome of the State House.


            Here is Voisine’s vision and capacity for poetic storytelling crystallized into crucial details: details that fall comfortably into a category best characterized by James McMichael, who calls Rare High Meadow of Which I Might Dream a book that “generates and sustains a momentum all its own,” a book that is “as down to earth as what we all walk on.” In these couplets, Voisine accomplishes something rare: the feat of generating a world that is both uniquely her own and is populated with details that a broad readership could easily picture. The word “no” is a pivot: we return not only to the narrative of the weatherman, but also to the larger narrative of “shifts in place.” We leave behind the world of the overdramatized sobbing newscaster and the catalogue in which she is housed, a catalogue that seems to try too hard to become part of a Modernist–Post Modernist tradition in which there must, it seems, be at least one set of rotting leaves in every text. In leaving the earlier tone, we enter forcefully into the universal sense of a body that is “overcome,” a body which—like the WeatherCam that drives the narrative—scrolls along a horizon filled with the recognizable (“the glowing dome of the State House”) tinged with a sense of the brand new (“these sterling, western heavens,” “the traffic below stills to a bright sluice”).

            Voisine sustains this tone successfully through the rest of “WeatherCam—the Horizon.” Although she occasionally provides a few details that bog down the pace of the text instead of promoting its central actions and concerns (an “artist’s sketch of a young, / thin, Caucasian man seen leaving a truck” is one strangely politically-correct example), she deftly builds the poem toward its conclusion:


[ . . . ] the smaller things that we will

never mention now, take us through to the other edge of the day


where we will see what the weatherman knew all along: the locust

and magnolia flowers, still tender, more bud than bloom, crisp


and dying on a branch’s sheath of snow, the skies, again, that forgetful blue.


            Perhaps the secret to Voisine’s work lies in the first couplet I have printed above: the reason some of Voisine’s details are excessive is because they belong to the category of “things that we will / never mention now,” and by mentioning them, Voisine breaks her own poetic pact. The primary purpose of these “smaller things” is to “take us through to the other edge”; and yet, when Voisine names them, endows them with lengthy catalogues in which to feed and grow fat, they overcrowd her more subtle craft, which reveals itself in stanzas and lines where those such “smaller things” are notably absent.

            If there were fewer bloated details—if those details were pushed to the background, giving the reader a sense of unrest as opposed to painting a vivid, Baroque image that screams, “There is unrest here!”—Voisine would consistently dazzle, as she does in much of “WeatherCam—the Horizon,” in “Love Poem,” in “The Invisible Man Remained.” At times, too, the poems seem to work too hard to belong to the Literary Canon, with a capital L and a capital C. In “The Early Days of Aviation,” there are lines of intelligently executed perception, introspection, and revelation, such as “I could tell you this was the year that I too / flew through a darkness, but at the time / I only felt ugly, inarticulate.” However, this reader finds herself disappointed when such moments blur amidst others whose greater purpose appears to be a sort of catcall to canonized literary and philosophical motifs. Take, for example, the following lines:


The world was a dark scroll unrolling beneath

and the plan could become a vehicle you’d use

the way a gnat uses its wings, with a three-dimensional

fluidity and the world might feel to you

the way water must feel to a dolphin.

It was too cold in that hotel, wind

snaked through the cracked-framed windows

and faded drapes.


            The impulse here to define the “world,” the references to a “gnat” and a “dolphin,” the mention of an edifice in disrepair and a wind that “snaked” amidst “cracked-framed windows” and “faded drapes”: this section envisions itself within a canon where such images and references are historically engaged, and suffers from it. One gets the sense that Voisine has included so many literary references in her volume in order to anchor her world in other worlds that have somehow gained a sought-after legitimacy—in other poems, we meet hawks, snakes, apples, Isabelle Archer, David Copperfield, Marie de France, Coleridge, and Keats, to name a few—rather than including them because they are vital to her poems. In truth, in its finest moments, Voisine’s work is strong enough to stand without these allusions—their invocations, as a result, can easily be interpreted as manifestations of insecurity as opposed to necessary in themselves.

            I mentioned earlier that two of the strongest poems in this book are among the shortest ones. There is one poem that is a glaring exception to this rule: it is the book’s long poem, “First Taste.” I believe that the reason many of Voisine’s short poems are successful is because a short poem mandates excision: there is no room for excess in a piece that is so small. “First Taste” is far from a short poem—it is ten pages long, with six lengthy sections that feature tercets, with the exception of the concluding one-line stanza. It also continues to demonstrate Voisine’s ability to craft a narrative poem in a lyric voice, and is a highly intelligent text with memorable and crucial moments—Voisine’s particular gift for rich endings is especially rewarding here, as the long journey taken through the poem ends with:


[. . .] —but you entered it as one enters


water in the summer, without fear or guile—and the brief glory of the door

flung open, the whoosh of air through the subway car,

the in and through every suffering you felt fully and well,


this is what you try to recall, organize.


            In a sense, however, “First Taste” is a short text, at least compared to what it might have been: as Nicholas Christopher notes, the poem is “rich and compressed as a novella.” “First Taste” is a short novel of sorts, compressed first by verse and second by Voisine’s knack for compression. The triumph of “First Taste” is a logical extension of the triumph of other instances of reduction by pressure, a phrase that suits Voisine well, and, tellingly, is a phrase that I have taken directly from the definition of what it means to “compress.”

          In the words of Mr. Bones, the world of Voisine’s Rare High Meadow of Which I Might Dream is—like the title of the volume itself—stuffed. There is much to admire in this second volume from an unquestionably skilled poet, including Voisine’s aptitude for astonishing shifts, for crafting frank confessions for her speakers, and for both the narrative and the lyric sensibilities. This quality of stuffed-ness, however, accounts for both the highs and the lows of this book, which sometimes feels as though it is straining against its belt buckle with too much ingested and too much said. I found myself unable to write about this book without weaving back and forth between pleasure and critique—though I searched for a way to separate the positives from the negatives and discuss each category in turn, it is a credit to Voisine’s capacity for cohesion that such an interpretation was impossible. Voisine demands a reader who processes her poems with a full acknowledgment of the fact that her book is a complete organism: the individual poems in the volume function much like organs within a larger creature. When an organ falters, the entire organism feels it, and when an organ works well, so too does the organism. A reader of Rare High Meadow of Which I Might Dream must follow the instructions for reading that the book itself prescribes: to be immersed in all aspects of Voisine’s full-to-bursting volume.




Sumita Chakraborty is the Assistant Poetry Editor at AGNI Magazine. A resident of Cambridge, Massachusetts and a graduate of Wellesley College, she writes poems and criticism, and plans to pursue graduate studies in English literature in the future. She has a poem forthcoming in BOXCAR Poetry Review.