in a protracted stillness, I saw that heron I didn’t wish to disturb was clearly a white sack caught in the redbud’s limbs
This poet who is ostensibly a product of the identity movement finds, through Virgil, that the natural world is more like us than we’d allow; that deep complications and human connections are possible.
issue 2 :: july 2009
Selected Poems, by Geoffrey Hill review by Daniel E. Pritchard What will be left, when the reviews and the criticism are nothing but ink-blackened dust, will be the finest body of poetry produced in this age. This selected edition, despite its several omissions and flaws, bears this out. Geoffrey Hill is our great poet, as much as Whitman and Milton were to past generations. Geoffrey Hill is our great poet, as much as Whitman and Milton were to past generations. I make this claim not lightly, and not without overcoming my own suspicious, resistant nature: greatness is a claim too easily bandied about in critical reviews; too often it is claimed lightly that so-and-so is the most accomplished certain species of verse-maker in this particular ever-narrowing timeframe. If one has to erect too many qualifications to argue for greatness, they very likely are not. . . . issue 1 :: may 2009
The Mower, by Andrew Motion review by Nora Delaney Indeed, something boyish remains in Motion’s poems, like the boy skating or boat-stealing in Wordsworth’s “Prelude:” ecstatic, innocent joy in observation and sensation. And clearly this sense is deliberately drawn from Wordsworth — a vestige of Motion’s literary heritage. This childlike wonder is seldom completely naïve, though; Motion’s poems tend to be memento moris, constantly reminding the reader (and Motion himself) of the passing of time, of life’s continual losses, and of the junctures where personal and public histories meet. issue 1 :: may 2009