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Chargement... Les Fauves (édition 2015)par Barbara Crooker (Auteur)
Information sur l'oeuvreLes Fauves par Barbara Crooker
Aucun Actuellement, il n'y a pas de discussions au sujet de ce livre.  DonnaMarieMerritt | Feb 12, 2017 |  aucune critique | ajouter une critique
Poetry. Art. Women's Studies. LES FAUVES is, as the title suggests, a collection of ekphrastic poetry, meditations on paintings from the Fauve and Post-Impressionist movements. But it also contains poetry's equivalent to Fauvism, poems that take a walk on the wild side. There are language experiment poems, poems of word play, poems in form both usual (end rhymes, sonnets, ghazals) and unusual (abecedaries, traditional, embedded, and double helix), palindromes, anagrams, and word scrambles. Crazy word salad poems. Crooker's subjects range widely, from living and working in a small village in the South of France, love in a long-term relationship, food as more than sustenance, faith in a secular age, grammar and usage, the pains and pleasures of the aging body. But always, what engages her most is what it means to be human on this fragile planet, at this time in our troubled history, still believing that "Beauty will save the world" (Fyodor Dostoevsky). Aucune description trouvée dans une bibliothèque |
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Barbara Crooker's poetry can make me laugh on one page (often!), cry on another, and have me thinking deeply about many things throughout. While there are comfortable, at-home moments, I was surprised (pleasantly!) to find edgier poems than in Crooker's previous collections.
Divided into four sections, it's bookended by ekphrastic poetry, with glimpses of her personal life in between and her time in France adding an extra bit of flavor (". . . Where the local cheese, the picodon, / lies down on its bed of baguette . . ."). There are poems about grammar and punctuation and parts of speech alongside more serious poems, such as her daughter going into labor too early. In "Why I Love Being Married to a Chemist," I smiled at her description and recognized true love; I got the same feeling from "Usage." "My Heart" tells of the jealousy of others' successes. I admire her for speaking about something we all feel but seldom admit.
And then, of course, there are the myriad of original phrases that strike you—"The bands of color faded, smudged into each other like chalk / pastels . . ." and ". . .Isn't this / what heaven will be? Days golden as croissants . . ." and "my mouth filled with fruit and new syllables" and ". . . the grass undecided if it should / take a pass, stay sleeping, rolled up in its patchy old coat."
This was the perfect read for a snowy day at home, and I end with "thank you, thank you, thank you" as Crooker ends one of her poems. (