October
the delicacy of embracing spirals by mimi tempestt
The second collection from the California poet, the delicacy of embracing spirals treats the page as a cinematic space; lines dance down and across the page with beautiful abandon–the poems transition into each other hypnotically, loose delineations between where each work begins and ends that suits the flow and tone so well. tempestt’s language is blunt and vivid, weaving encounters with violence alongside the more mundane moves of life alongside critiques of the craft that makes up the book itself; she writes, “today…/i’m just a fat Black bitch with a few good words / a court jester at best / every [Black] poet waits in line for their 15 minutes”. The title poem, “the delicacy of embracing spirals,” appears near middle—an astonishing feat, long and winding with formal shifts on each pagethere is an enormity, reflected in the language itself—”i forgot to laugh during the descent”, bolded, a subtitle within the poem; it continues, phrases down the center of the page—“the (in) sane self / the same questions / take it all too seriously” towards an all-caps prose-block reset at the bottom of the page—”THE CHILD WIELDS AN ENTITY OF FURY THROUGH GRITTED TEETH:” and back to the short, centered lines. I love this poem for all that it encapsulates what had come before it, how fully it creates a voice that echoes for the reader. The poem that follows, “when there’s no one left to love, love on me” is a stunning, vulnerable epistolary piece; mighty italics, justified across two pages, starkly filling in all of the blank space we had been so attuned to prior. It is another reset for the reader, an act break, shifting the arc forward but never deterring focus.
November
Orders of Service by Willie Lee Kinard III
Kinnard’s debut makes use of the page in a way that I rarely see—with poems that alternate between black page/white text, white page/black text, formal and innovative. This collection is one you want to read in one sitting and then instantly read again. The recurring suite “Boomerang, or a Chorus of Onlooking Fireflies Captions the Previous Poem” builds out lines as the collection grows, an almost video-game-achievement-like marker of progress; it is, too, a test of attention—the poems positioning themselves in direct conversation with one another, the reader perhaps will return, give each “captioned” poem another read before progressing. It is an order tactic I thoroughly enjoy, bringing extra life into this act of reading. Poems like “B{u/i}tter Pecan Apocrypha,” too, play with a linear reading experience–the subheading under the title reads, “Directions: complete the passage by selecting the fitting pronoun,” to precede lines like “Like the cruel misfortune of unwrapping / an already ruined package, {you/I} imagine / {your/my}self unsalvageable.” This collection plays with reader address and speaker assignment over and over again, and it is as extraordinary as it is enjoyable.
Conversation Among Stones by Willie Lin
Lin’s haunting debut is a wonderful slow-burn. I love the recurring poems titled “Apologia,” slight shifts in their address each time they occur, always breathtaking. There is something building in this book. From the early poem “Floating World,” brisk and speculative in those opening lines “Somewhere, in my right mind, / I put on a mortal uniform” we are guided across an eerie ocean towards that final moment–”Below us, just the sea and its noise. What we’ve always known / was there.” What I take from this collection is a plea to listen–to the seascapes, to the desert, to the dead. Lin’s versatility is stunning—from a high-concept imagination towards the grounded, like in “Gauntlet for the Left Hand” whose first and last lines are such a raw, honest bookends for each other: “I thought if I / could desire less / I could be happy” to “And now, / I know it is terrible / to want nothing” makes the quiet collection luxuriate in its environment building. Conversation Among Stones downsizes the reader so every small shift, every moment is monumental, worthy of note. An excellent debut that draws instant loyalty from me as a reader.
December
TenderHeaded by Olatunde Osinaike
The push-and-pull of form in this debut from Osinaike is such an impressive balance, spanning from reverent prose pieces to something like the interesting construction of “Etymology of Simp” with its two columns, verses square and stark, inviting the reader to confuse the line appropriately for the coming-of-age narrative it presents. Selected by Camille Rankine for the National Poetry Series, this collection simmers thoughtfully through considerations of Black masculinity and boyhood, introspective and precise in its critical eye—but always tender, always earnest. I love the opening lines of “Concerning Social Security” as a way in—“Is it so wrong of me to ask for a common ground / in this calculated gamut of a world? Nine digits to tell / / me that I am special, and ten digits to show / me that I am within reach.” Or in “I Know the Hustle So Well,” the line “Judas was grown, I am in my mid-/twenties.” The latter is made up of tercets that transition so well into a prose block poem, one of my favorites in the collection, “Brief Notes On Ghostwriting.” It is a collection to spend time with, to return to, and to follow the poet for whatever comes next.
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