"The triumphs of Pobo’s ekphrastic texts lie less in any consonant relationship between the given poem and the artwork than in the dissonant collisions sparked by the art and extended through the poetry. In the collection’s best moments, it’s as though Pobo’s language leaps out beyond the artwork to another plane altogether—a plane that nevertheless feels as though it was prepared by the artwork itself."
Of the two key paradoxes addressed by this book, the first one is the most relatable, that is: the manner in which these women seek meaning serves to destroy those things that would most provide it. As delivered by Blunschi, that paradox is heartbreaking, exasperating, and all too familiar.
Happy was I then to learn of a new publication from Eliot Weinberger, The Ghosts of Birds, in which Weinberger continues in the vein he nearly pioneered and certainly owns, that of the avant-garde essay. While this book might offer distraction from the tumultuous present, it immerses its reader into a wider scope of time that proves no less convulsive, ecstatic or ultimately mysterious