One thing about contemporary art that annoys me is that sometimes a work that is hanging on a wall or standing on a plinth in a gallery can only be understood with the gloss that accompanies it. This kind of thing seems to me to negate the point of the artwork itself, since a work of art should be comprehensible at first glance and if you need to explain it for it to have its full meaning understood then it has failed at its primary purpose. This book of poetry fails for just this reason. If you don’t read the gloss then nothing in it makes any sense.
For a start there is no perceptible narrative. It is all subtle texture and endless periphery, there is no solid core upon which to hang your feelings. The narrator appears to be a woman (but, again, you need the gloss to tell you this) but apart from that fact, and something at one point that alludes to child sexual abuse, you have very little to go on if you want to make sense of the book. There are many poems about love and a few that talk about infidelity, but for the most part you are left unaccompanied by the author as you make your way through her verses, and like a child in a dark wood you probably wish you had some breadcrumbs to throw on the ground to guide you home.
For a start there is no perceptible narrative. It is all subtle texture and endless periphery, there is no solid core upon which to hang your feelings. The narrator appears to be a woman (but, again, you need the gloss to tell you this) but apart from that fact, and something at one point that alludes to child sexual abuse, you have very little to go on if you want to make sense of the book. There are many poems about love and a few that talk about infidelity, but for the most part you are left unaccompanied by the author as you make your way through her verses, and like a child in a dark wood you probably wish you had some breadcrumbs to throw on the ground to guide you home.
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