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Jul 22, 2015
8 Min read time
“Every accuracy has to be invented,” Anne Carson has said of the effort to translate inner experience into language. In Meg Freitag’s twisted love poems, this paradox is a spell cast and already come true. Here, domestic interiors—of desire and dismay, adoration and rejection—collide with the material world as metabolized by a keenly raw, ruefully honest, mystically precise imagination. Strangeness of feeling infects the familiar. Ecstatic figuration transforms the unfolding of thought thinking thought, of body knowing experience.
In these poems, accuracies of emotion are invented by the fling and anchor of image, metaphor, and simile, by boldness of juxtaposition and intimacy of address. Accuracies of image, metaphor, simile, juxtaposition, and address are invented by the emotions coursing beneath their surfaces. Line, stanza, and syntax invent accuracies particular to poetry: perception is revealed as an act of translation, articulation as a means of transformation; language veers alchemical.
Nervous systems automatic and sympathetic fire in the body of this work: upon measured reflection, in a fit of pique or pleasure, we may choose to hold our breath or something may catch it, but always its inevitable bellowed pulse precedes and follows our slowest sighs and our most abrupt gasps, and there is nothing much to do about our beating hearts.
“I made up ice bats, there is no such thing,” Carson says, but of course there is, or, there is now. This third place—between (both) real and unreal, given and taken, held and dispersed—is the zone Freitag’s work inhabits, the here that is possible only in, by, and through poems.
A Relationship in Chiarascuro
Two Hatchlings at the End of the World
Promenade à Deux
Notes on Longing from the Overworld
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July 22, 2015
8 Min read time
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