"Between the Crackups" is a frolicking romp through the abandoned factories, overcrowded highways, and forgotten rural landscapes of America. This provocatively voiced book explores themes of sexuality, gender, class, pop-culture, and aesthetics. Some of these poems are sonnets, some are multi-voiced elegies, others are meditations on loss. From the balmy swamps of Florida"Between the Crackups" is a frolicking romp through the abandoned factories, overcrowded highways, and forgotten rural landscapes of America. This provocatively voiced book explores themes of sexuality, gender, class, pop-culture, and aesthetics. Some of these poems are sonnets, some are multi-voiced elegies, others are meditations on loss. From the balmy swamps of Florida, to the snowed-in forests of northern Wisconsin, and back again, Rebecca Lehmann captures a feeling of cultural unease and personal panic in tight, smartly worded poems that banter casually with the tropes, traditions, and authors of the Western poetic canon. In the book, the Old English poem "The Dream of the Rood" is re-imagined as a two-part, modern-day fever dream, the classic pastoral landscape morphs into an apple orchard occupied by off-putting children, and the entire season of autumn goes missing. Part serious meditation and part carnival fun house, these poems will make the reader chortle, chuckle, snort, and maybe even blush....
|Title||:||Between the Crackups|
|Number of Pages||:||80 Pages|
|Status||:||Available For Download|
|Last checked||:||21 Minutes ago!|
Between the Crackups Reviews
Don't be put off by the star rating. There is more to this collection of poetry than a star rating can convey. There is more to any collection of poetry than a review, never mind a rating, can possibly try to address.This collection of poetry had me interested right from the start with its harsh unsympathetic attitude. But attitude towards what? Or whom?Think Georgia, Gorgeous We take our bearing from the headlights flashing through the guardrails, Nashville, and a billboard reads, Good little tits! No, that's a joke you make. But we saw one in Indiana that read Fireworks, Guns, Cigarettes, Big B-A-N-G! Tennessee's small towns rub themselves against our little Chevy as we careen through the Smokies. I grab the wheel when you ask me to, put down my pencil and stop following the law. The truth collapses. There's a mountain that looks like your face. I say I love you. It's not a lie, although everything else might be - the salt on the side of the car, the salt in your blood, the one-armed hitchhiker.It seemed part of the attraction of this collection was the anger, disregard, illusions of independence and carelessness. However, I quickly found out that most of the poems were utterly inaccessible to me. Not because of the themes. Structurally, too, many of the poems were as elusive as the content. And, yet, a handful of the poems were just gripping.North Florida Rain Don't judge me because I don't find anything as beautiful as the sound of the rain; it's likely I've mistaken anesthesia for aesthetics. Live oaks split the air around my house. They don't know the answer: moonshine or memory, perhaps trying to see each twisting drop amidst the rapid veil. Years ago a deer ran out from the storm-slick woods and slammed into the side of my car. The deer's antlers slid across the windshield. Its hoofs dented lines across the hood. Its nose was snotty. It snorted. A wad of mucus lodged against the wipers. The ditch was something final. Maybe the deer became the rain as it limped away, the line of blood it left a lightning bolt, or question mark. Forgive the intrusion of metaphor; I've been away a long time. I wear a damp wool coat. Please page my father.
My lovely daughter wrote this collection of poems, so of course I am biased and think it's fantastic! This is not a delicate piece of work, and shows the dark and sometimes humorous side of the author. I know the years of blood, sweat and tears that went into this book and I am so proud of my girl for this wonderful accomplishment!
I'm starting to read a book of poetry a day for the month of May, something I did a while back, and now keeping company with two of my friends. So why not read a book an old friend of mine wrote? I knew Becky when she was a senior in high school--my husband and his siblings attended the same school as her. We were just babies then, looking back! Becky's book is lovely, and I especially loved "The Factory, An Elegy In Six Parts." Her sequenced poems are the strongest for me, where she can repeat and revisit, giving us new perspective. I love her unapologetic tone, her matter-of-fact voice. Congratulations, Becky. I wanted to read this earlier, but with a year of serious editing under my belt, it's best it happened now when my eyes weren't so jittery and I wasn't so strapped to my one idea of how poetry works. Now the world is open and I'm glad this book is a part of it.