Kathleen Lynch Poetry |
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Hinge by Kathleen Lynch "Kathleen Lynch writes poems about bacon and eggs, Halloween pumpkins, crabgrass and the crack in the driveway—a world so common, so ordinary, we might not see it at all if it were not for the light of her poetry. And what a warm and loving light she brings! Hinge is a collection dignified by generosity of sprit, written by a poet who is ‘willing to touch each physical miracle,’ and then say out loud ‘I am grateful.’” "Robert Frost once said that if a poem has outer seriousness he liked it to have inner humor. If outer humor, then inner seriousness. Kathleen Lynch's poems exemplify Frost's predilection. She's a poet of both gravity and charm, continually fascinated with the vagaries of what it means to be alive. I'm an unabashed Kathleen Lynch fan. She even knows how to make sadness lively. Those of you in search of serious pleasures, buy this book." "Fierce. Uncompromising. Warm. Wry. Kathleen Lynch's voice is all these things, as well as sure and reassuring. Lynch's poems are bold in their range, and fiercely honest in their observations. Her poems have such clarity that we feel we've entered a world utterly new, yet utterly familiar. The hallmark of her gifts is her ability to make the ordinary reveal itself to us in extraordinary ways. Only a poet of her grace, intelligence, and technical skill could allow us to pass so easily from the mundane to the miracles it contains, reminding us that the 'hinge between worlds' is always there before us. In Lynch's hands, it opens again and again." — Lynne Knight, author of Dissolving Borders (Quarterly Review of Literature Prize, 1996), Snow Effects, Clearing Acanthus, and The Book of Common Betrayals (Bear Star Press Dorothy Brunsman Poetry Prize, 2002). "Kathleen Lynch’s lithe and luminous poems provide a gateway between the shimmer of language and the representation of a world that is both familiar and deeply strange. It is a world invented from as well as constructed by memory where one encounters the contingencies of existence as they impinge upon ordinary moments—moments when one least expects to encounter the otherness of one’s own self. In these poems, which are not quite self-portraits, the self is a kind of metaphor always in flux. Each poem in the collection offers one more small revelation; a partial testimony to the odd fabric of any life that only becomes comprehensible through the words out of which one makes oneself."
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