Poet Julianne Buchsbaum has won acclaim for her "rich, lucid, alliterative lexicon, full of apt surprise" (Reginald Shepherd); "there is something of Wallace Stevens in her precision, her incredible diction," says Matthew Rohrer.Read more...
Poet Julianne Buchsbaum has won acclaim for her "rich, lucid, alliterative lexicon, full of apt surprise" (Reginald Shepherd); "there is something of Wallace Stevens in her precision, her incredible diction," says Matthew Rohrer. Her new collection, The Apothecary's Heir, depicts a damaged world in which the speaker is trying to make sense of human relationships in the aftermath of loss. A series of meditations on landscapes of our postmodern world a sickbed, a gas station, a bomb shelter, a rest stop along a highway these supple poems explore the frailty of human connectedness and anatomize desire in a world of pharmaceuticals and microchips."
- ISBN-13: 9780143121411
- ISBN-10: 0143121413
- Publisher: Penguin Books
- Publish Date: May 2012
- Page Count: 65
- Reading Level: Ages 18-UP
- Dimensions: 8.51 x 5.57 x 0.24 inches
- Shipping Weight: 0.24 pounds
Series: National Poetry Series Books (Paperback)
Publishers Weekly® Reviews
- Reviewed in: Publishers Weekly, page .
- Review Date: 2012-07-16
- Reviewer: Staff
At once lovely in its compact artifice and genuine in its sense of memory, this third collection from Buchsbaum (Slowly, Slowly) takes on American places from California to Florida, from trackless woods to “trailer parks,” “drowned valleys or barges off the coast of Maine,” finding again and again in these sites an elaborate language for Romantic complaint and family elegy, “with a lusty rhythm/ and Latinate words.” Buchsbaum’s high diction, unrhymed couplets, and rococo titles (“In the Beautiful, Long-Gone and Godless Season of Hereafter”) can evoke Lucie Brock-Broido, who selected the book for the National Poetry series, while her unapologetic emotion, grounded in eros, in personal mourning, and in spirits bucolic and georgic, harks back to the achievements of Dylan Thomas. Though she addresses cultivated fields, suburbs, and even the bookish spaces of historiography, Buchsbaum seems most at home in forests, where “leaves crinkle in the woods like people telling secrets.” She calls herself a “lexicographer of decay,” a “voyager through/ pale, annulled provinces” as she walks out in a “late-winter landscape” of oak trees. Such moments may strike some readers as overwrought, attentive more to manner than to something said. And yet they will strike others as sublimely charming. (July)