The Difficult Farm by Heather Christle

25 Dec

Christle Cover

I just finished this book, why I didn’t read it sooner is beyond me, and I wanted to say, “I think it’s really good,” but that’s a bad single-sentence review.

The busyness of the poems, of the speaker’s mind, remind me of right now, it’s Christmas, and weird things are happening, and I’m thinking things, and people are playing professional sports, and other people are getting fatter, and a bird outside is flying because it wants to.

Yeah, I just admitted I wish I had read it sooner, but maybe the only other time I wish I’d read it was during Christmas time last year, the only time hectic in this place, by place I mean my house and my head, that collide with, or perhaps compliment, these poems so well.

In their strangeness, these poems can chatter with the best of them, that meaningful chatter making me want to interact, to get up and trot around, to find a nice ear or hole in the world and talk into it.

All this is me trying to say, THANK YOU HEATHER CHRISTLE FOR THIS FEARLESSLY GO-GOING BOOK AND SORRY IT TOOK ME SO LONG AND HAPPY HOLIDAYS.

Here’s a little bit of my favorite poem that might make this post a little more “together,” since it’s the holidays and all, since we’re supposed to be together:

It Is Raining In Here

I am remembering how yesterday

a falcon landed on the telephone pole

and we stepped out of the car, amazed.

It was the color of somebody’s carpet.

In somebody’s carpet there is a falcon-

shaped hole. The trees here by the airport

stand leafless and wet, full of hidden coils

and a light that battles the asphalt. I love

the asphalt and everyone’s terrible behavior.

And I quoted more of that than I planned, but read the whole glorious thing at Sixth Finch. Or buy the book from Octopus Books. Or from Laura at the VouchedATL table if you’re so lucky to be near that goodness.

 

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