|
|
Marianne Moore once defined good poetry as "an imaginary garden with a
real toad in it." Bernadette Wolff's poems have precisely that fluid
charm wedded to the steel-hard edge of actual life, the unmistakable
feel of it eaten whole and chewed up, bones and all - with all its
leaps of faith, its triumphs, its disappointments, and its anguishes.
In the process she has achieved a voice that cannot be fooled and will
not be tempted to betray itself. Read these deeply affecting poems
once or a hundred times, and you will understand how. |
|