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This volume too engages daddies big and small, whose lives and lifestyles depend on exploiting women and others. Hamby’s previous book Bird Odyssey wrestled with what it means (in our numbingly patriarchal culture) to be a woman, especially a woman writer. Who is this poet? Who does she speak to? And to what end? And also the Emily Dickinson who wrote, “I am out with lanterns, looking for myself.” The search is on. Sentences run on and on, sometimes the length of these lengthy poems, but often at least 4 or 5 strophes. “Inspire” comes from the Latin word to breathe, and we’ve already noted the breathiness of these poems, a breathiness which is Whitmanic (emphasis on the manic) out of Charles Olson and the Beats. So, on one hand, these are poems that mirror the poet’s world-America / herself / her wanderings-but is that all they strive for? Every encounter with reality is re-formed or enlivened by something we might call inspiration. And we know that a mirror is a visual echo. If we say the title of Hamby’s book a few times to ourselves (like a mantra), we realize that, in fact, it’s an echo: holo / holo. He steals the dreck we never needed anyway. So I say shalom, old friend, time is a gonif, but sometimes His constant kvetching and he hated how big my tuchesīut now that he’s an alter cocker and I’m a bubbe, time Such fights they had!Īnd he hated all my tchatchkes, and I couldn’t stand Ver klempt and schmaltzy about those years we spentīut then she remembers the fights. My conversation with, and sometimes I get all
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To my former boyfriend for the Yiddish that I pepper I’m particularly fond of her “Ode to Yiddish.” She’s grateful, she tells us, “Holoholo” is a Hawaiian word that means “walking out with no destination in mind,” and these poems allow themselves that kind of freedom, a freedom which embraces the infinite variety of human experience, and language. Which took years of meditation to clear, bulldozing the hovels … when you’re born, your brain is medieval ParisĪnd then Baron Haussmann begins to build your celestialĬranial city with its Place de la Concorde, In “Ode on Following My Mind,” we escort the poet not only through her waking but also her dreaming life, where she tours the Paris of her brain, “the Arc de Poésie and the Bistro de Chekhov / and the Jardin de Procrastibaking,” only to realize: One finds oneself wandering her sentences like Dante on his way to Heaven. This openness to experience is replicated in the expansive syntax of these poems. O let me in.” The struggle is on for the soul of this poor soul, and only when everything in the cosmos (and the dictionary) is let in will she be at peace. your drinking water straight from the stream, /.
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Keats, of course, is one of her many co-conspirators in this late night jam, and indeed in “Ode on My Nightingale” her “little god” tells us, “I am the cosmologist / of the atomic, high priest of everything / you never wanted to be. Ostensibly a book of odes, these are not just poems of praise she urges her readers to construe the term “ode” in the widest possible sense: as a “poetic stance, a poetic investigation of what it means to be a human being at any moment in time.”
#Poemes a 4 strophes how to#
How to describe a book as filled with delights as Barbara Hamby’s Holoholo.