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Weems
, September 06, 2020
(view all comments by Weems)
Poetry is an act of resistance, at the very least the resistance of easy conclusions. At first blush, Addonizio‘s poems in this book, centering around desire and Eros, nicely twist and turn, mixing pain with love, birth with murder, etc. But when going through several poems at a stretch, those methods of resistance feel a little predictable, like how contemporary horror movies try to offset jump scares by making them happen a moment or two after the tension buildup, which in of itself becomes another formula that makes them just as predictable as the predictability they’re trying to get away from. Explaining this analogy undermines the poetry itself somewhat, so I’m not saying that this book gets tedious, but to me the method started to feel a little too overt.
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