The hurting kind :poems

If a bestiary is a treatise on animals, then Limón's sparkling sixth poetry collection brilliantly expands the genre, which may be no surprise for a poet once accused of being "all fauna and no flora." Indeed, Limón (The Carrying, 2018) has created much more than a zoological catalog; the poet's bright and clear-eyed lyrics extract the most profound tenderness from the simplest moments. A copperhead snaking around a boy's arm forms deceptive circles, "both a noun and a verb and a story that doesn't end well." Translucent newborn scorpions are "filaments / of nightmares," dark magic in a mason jar. Two large crows are "Odin's ravens, the bruja's eyes." And there is flora. Forsythia reminds the speaker of her dying stepmother's cries of "More yellow!" Elsewhere, Limón measures time in evocative, unexpected ways. "Anticipation" is a quick column of retrospection, reflecting on difficult days gone by, culminating in "crimson / linen curtains / billowing in / liquid spring / wind." Another speaker characterizes time as an "envenomed veil of extremes--loss and grief and reckoning." An understated, powerful, unforgettable collection, and no doubt one of the best of this year.

The tender, arresting sixth collection from Limón (The Carrying) is an ode to the cycle of birth, death, and rebirth that characterizes the natural world. The work is divided into four sections (after the four seasons), and is frequently set in the poet's garden. In this Edenic location, Limón observes the flora and fauna, which can lead to personal revelations. In "Foaling Season," the speaker describes a pasture full of mares and their foals, which allows her to reflect on her decision not to have children. Limón's descriptions of animals are richly evocative; a groundhog is "a liquidity moving, all muscle and bristle... slippery and waddle-thieving my tomatoes." The title poem movingly pays homage to the poet's family and ancestors as she recalls how her grandparents told her "never/ to kill a California King, benevolent/ as they were, equanimous like earth or sky, not// toothy like the dog Chaco who barked/ at nearly every train whistle or roadrunner." In the "Summer" section, Limón contemplates cockroaches and spiderwort, then briefly recalls a trip to Argentina before declaring, "And now the world is gone. No more Buenos Aires or Santiago." Limón's crystalline language is a feast for the senses, bringing monumental significance to the minuscule and revealing life in every blade of grass. (May)

*Starred Review* If a bestiary is a treatise on animals, then Limón's sparkling sixth poetry collection brilliantly expands the genre, which may be no surprise for a poet once accused of being "all fauna and no flora." Indeed, Limón (The Carrying, 2018) has created much more than a zoological catalog; the poet's bright and clear-eyed lyrics extract the most profound tenderness from the simplest moments. A copperhead snaking around a boy's arm forms deceptive circles, "both a noun and a verb and a story that doesn't end well." Translucent newborn scorpions are "filaments / of nightmares," dark magic in a mason jar. Two large crows are "Odin's ravens, the bruja's eyes." And there is flora. Forsythia reminds the speaker of her dying stepmother's cries of "More yellow!" Elsewhere, Limón measures time in evocative, unexpected ways. "Anticipation" is a quick column of retrospection, reflecting on difficult days gone by, culminating in "crimson / linen curtains / billowing in / liquid spring / wind." Another speaker characterizes time as an "envenomed veil of extremes—loss and grief and reckoning." An understated, powerful, unforgettable collection, and no doubt one of the best of this year. Copyright 2022 Booklist Reviews.

Following the National Book Critics Circle Award—winning The Carrying, U.S. Poet Laureate Limón's latest is divided into four sections by season. But though she closely and caringly observes the flora and fauna around her, Limón is not offering a naturefest. Instead, she shows how we are enfolded in the world, how we move through not just the seasons but the years. "It's like staring into an original joy," she proclaims on a mountaintop, and she wants to tap into that joy while bringing us along with her. The "Spring" poems celebrate not just coming to life but overcoming, while the "Summer" poems reflect desire: "I do not want to kill the longing woman in me," she declares, and ends one poem about trees seeming to kiss, "Come/ home. Everything is begging you." "Fall" is not just a time for "sad privacy" but for reimagining; "What good is accuracy in the perpetual/ scattering that unspools the world." And that leads easily into the sweet nostalgia of "Winter" and preparations for the next round: "the world walking in, ready to be ravaged, open for business." The title poem queries our ties to past, family, and identity but concludes encouragingly: "Love ends. But what if it doesn't." VERDICT An accomplished volume highly recommended for both neophytes and poetry lovers.—Barbara Hoffert, Library Journal

The tender, arresting sixth collection from Limón (The Carrying) is an ode to the cycle of birth, death, and rebirth that characterizes the natural world. The work is divided into four sections (after the four seasons), and is frequently set in the poet's garden. In this Edenic location, Limón observes the flora and fauna, which can lead to personal revelations. In "Foaling Season," the speaker describes a pasture full of mares and their foals, which allows her to reflect on her decision not to have children. Limón's descriptions of animals are richly evocative; a groundhog is "a liquidity moving, all muscle and bristle... slippery and waddle-thieving my tomatoes." The title poem movingly pays homage to the poet's family and ancestors as she recalls how her grandparents told her "never/ to kill a California King, benevolent/ as they were, equanimous like earth or sky, not// toothy like the dog Chaco who barked/ at nearly every train whistle or roadrunner." In the "Summer" section, Limón contemplates cockroaches and spiderwort, then briefly recalls a trip to Argentina before declaring, "And now the world is gone. No more Buenos Aires or Santiago." Limón's crystalline language is a feast for the senses, bringing monumental significance to the minuscule and revealing life in every blade of grass. (May)