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Lädt ... The Girls of Peculiar: Poetryvon Catherine Pierce
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In Catherine Pierce's most peculiar second collection, we enter a world of longing and destruction, of death and rebirth, and of wonderfully odd girls—girls who read too much, who drink too much or not enough, who craft necklaces from earwigs and wring nostalgia from Spiro Agnew. These are poems of questions and restlessness, but also of answers of a sort. As Beth Ann Fennelly writes, "[t]he big themes here—self identity, desire, escape—are illuminated with clarity, scored musically, and enlivened with wit. The Girls of Peculiar is a fabulous book." Keine Bibliotheksbeschreibungen gefunden. |
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Google Books — Lädt ... GenresMelvil Decimal System (DDC)811.6Literature English (North America) American poetry 21st CenturyKlassifikation der Library of Congress [LCC] (USA)BewertungDurchschnitt:
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THE CHILD HAS READ EVERYTHING
And everything is haunted: the storybook where girls
in dirndls are devoured. Her mother's silver-spined
paperbacks that heat her in dark places. The newspaper
with it's front page bloodied by the car crash. She can't
stop her eyes. She tries to forget what she's read, but
like that other story, once she's bitten in, she can't untaste.
Her mind won't listen, veers off into the forest marked
Forbidden, holds a knife to her throat when she begs it
to stop. For safety, she drinks her own guilt. It inoculates her.
Everyone thinks she is the good daughter,
her world a gold-leaf illustration. No one knows
the words seed themselves in her brain. That they grow
and grow,their roots tangled, their limbs goblin-fingered.
No one hears how they whisper, Think me. The words
blacken and climb until she can't see past their spiny tops.
Even as the world goes on real around her, she is shadowed.
Sometimes light flickers above the clawed trees, and in it
she can make out people moving. They laugh like the dragon
isn't always behind them. Like the limbs aren't full
of hanged children, swinging. Like they have never
watched, horrified, their minds race over the landscape
like escaped hounds. She aches toward the people. But then
the pages open again and she gorges herself to sickness.
She doesn't want to find the path. She's the wicked daughter,
the one who stays lost, and she'll learn that story by heart.
She'll dwell in her own darkness, grow lizard-lidded,
cat-limbed. She'll drink her evil down. She'll twist the trees
into every shape but the one that reads The End. ( )