Read online Kristin Hatch - National Poetry: The Meatgirl Whatever in DJV, TXT, PDF
9781934200728 1934200727 This is a documentary. Or those poems are promotional cartoon avatars, installations of a longer, live-action Emmy-winning series in which glee and melancholy, revulsion and beauty, lyric and satire, living flesh and chopped-up meat combine in sinister gurlosque fantasia. Labor is a backdrop: we are often in a restaurant it seems, likely a fast-food chain, whose employees' relations (upper management is conspicuously occluded) take on the fixed, sadistic dynamics of a Bosch tableau or a Hogarth etching. Within the workers' dreamy nightmare, however, otherwise degraded working conditions are offset by an artisanal sensibility eerily shared by nearly every moving miso in the mise-en-scène. This shows especially in the poems' malappropriative antigrammar, their travesties of high modernist wordplay (e.g., "but how meat and rotten egg of him / to tie me two days tantric"). the meatgirl whatever is like a box of Valentines infested by spiders: which part of it is the pretty part getting ruined by the ugly part, and which is the antique telephone that burns your mouth and fingers? Book jacket., Winner of the National Poetry Series. The poems in Kristin Hatch's debut collection ooze with the viscus of shattered reality. Bodily, almost animalistic, they flirt with apocalypse, accumulate like diary entries from a madman's kitchen where knife blades hover near the jugular. "This is a documentary," writes K. Silem Mohammad, who selected this book for the National Poetry Series, "or these poems are promotional cartoon avatars, installations of a longer, live-action Emmy-winning series in which glee and melancholy, revulsion and beauty, lyric and satire, living flesh and chopped-up meat combine in sinister gurlesque fantasia." A terrifying and necessary first book. From "annunciation": bent, he talked me through all my tied, big like i was kansas or a diagram sketched with arrows pointing to my special parts with "trick" and "murder" spelled out in clean, legible type. his documentary voice uncled at my ankles. my legs folded back for him & he'd say my mouth was a hauntbag. he could take the willows from my lungs. i hated himbut i begged for it in the underhang & the bad would bang into bird shapes & every time my ugly became less ugly, ours. for a while, the mirrors were too thick with it to see through. after he left, i picked at my at my toes & tried to get ancient. stungdumb, & gnarled against that autumn, i sat barefoot to imagine his arm hair--all of it shuttering like wheat in a stormfield--featherlight little marys--a legless army, aghast at god & beginning to show. Kristin Hatch has an MFA from the Iowa Writers' Workshop. Her poems have appeared in various journals including Black Warrior Review , Colorado Review , and Indiana Review . Her chapbook, through the hour glass , is forthcoming from CutBank and is about the soap opera Days of Our Lives .
9781934200728 1934200727 This is a documentary. Or those poems are promotional cartoon avatars, installations of a longer, live-action Emmy-winning series in which glee and melancholy, revulsion and beauty, lyric and satire, living flesh and chopped-up meat combine in sinister gurlosque fantasia. Labor is a backdrop: we are often in a restaurant it seems, likely a fast-food chain, whose employees' relations (upper management is conspicuously occluded) take on the fixed, sadistic dynamics of a Bosch tableau or a Hogarth etching. Within the workers' dreamy nightmare, however, otherwise degraded working conditions are offset by an artisanal sensibility eerily shared by nearly every moving miso in the mise-en-scène. This shows especially in the poems' malappropriative antigrammar, their travesties of high modernist wordplay (e.g., "but how meat and rotten egg of him / to tie me two days tantric"). the meatgirl whatever is like a box of Valentines infested by spiders: which part of it is the pretty part getting ruined by the ugly part, and which is the antique telephone that burns your mouth and fingers? Book jacket., Winner of the National Poetry Series. The poems in Kristin Hatch's debut collection ooze with the viscus of shattered reality. Bodily, almost animalistic, they flirt with apocalypse, accumulate like diary entries from a madman's kitchen where knife blades hover near the jugular. "This is a documentary," writes K. Silem Mohammad, who selected this book for the National Poetry Series, "or these poems are promotional cartoon avatars, installations of a longer, live-action Emmy-winning series in which glee and melancholy, revulsion and beauty, lyric and satire, living flesh and chopped-up meat combine in sinister gurlesque fantasia." A terrifying and necessary first book. From "annunciation": bent, he talked me through all my tied, big like i was kansas or a diagram sketched with arrows pointing to my special parts with "trick" and "murder" spelled out in clean, legible type. his documentary voice uncled at my ankles. my legs folded back for him & he'd say my mouth was a hauntbag. he could take the willows from my lungs. i hated himbut i begged for it in the underhang & the bad would bang into bird shapes & every time my ugly became less ugly, ours. for a while, the mirrors were too thick with it to see through. after he left, i picked at my at my toes & tried to get ancient. stungdumb, & gnarled against that autumn, i sat barefoot to imagine his arm hair--all of it shuttering like wheat in a stormfield--featherlight little marys--a legless army, aghast at god & beginning to show. Kristin Hatch has an MFA from the Iowa Writers' Workshop. Her poems have appeared in various journals including Black Warrior Review , Colorado Review , and Indiana Review . Her chapbook, through the hour glass , is forthcoming from CutBank and is about the soap opera Days of Our Lives .