Robin Morgan's work, celebrated for its vindication of female experience and its evocation of the zeitgeist, is here intensely personal and powerful in new ways. In her sixth book of poems, prize-winning poet Robin Morgan undertakes a radical departure from her previous work, as she locates the landscape of her vision in the stark isolation of a self confronting love's aftermath, its losses, and its undeniable betrayals. In poems documenting a seven-year silence, Morgan's voice emerges markedly different, sounding a singular passage through a private hell of despair, the madness of a "Hot January," to a place of furious peace in which the artist weeps "to recognize the self I'd fled to find."
I came late to Morgan's poetry, knowing her mainly through her prose. But I'd read and liked Upstairs in The Garden, a collection of her new and selected poetry; the poems were complex yet accessible, and some read like intense short stories. So I picked up A Hot January. This one absolutely blew me away. It is dark in its vision but the language really sings, and the journey the poet takes--surviving a lost love, voicelessness, and a bitter madness-- brings her and the reader out to another place, saner, bitterer and wittier, wise. Individual images, characters, lines are lodged in my mind: suicidal whales, the lure of the butcher's daughter, the quiet despair of a farm wife, "our domestic violets"; and the rage, grief, energy, and love/lust in these lines singe the brain. Real poetry, from a real poet.
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