Slantwise : Poems

Leaning toward Emily Dickinson's advice to tell it slant, the poems in Betty Adcock's Slantwise approach our losses, including such disasters as September 11 and the crash of the space shuttle Columbia, through happenings outside the public view - asides, as it were, from the primary moment.

Leaning toward Emily Dickinson's advice to tell it slant, the poems in Betty Adcock's Slantwise approach our losses, including such disasters as September 11 and the crash of the space shuttle Columbia, through happenings outside the public view -- asides, as it were, from the primary moment. The title faintly echoes American slang, as in ""wisecrack,"" which might be applied to poems here that skewer literary critics, human self-regard, and the poet herself. Reflecting also the folk speech of Adcock's native East Texas, where much of her work has been set, the title suggests a middle way among images of rising and falling, tropes that can confound the directions of grief and praise. From the strangely epic fall of one longleaf pine needle in deep woods to the widening contexts of the Twin Towers' collapse and a spacecraft's deadly descent, from the lyric rising of light out of earthly things to the lyric rise of a dancing arborist and a clowning roustabout, these poems mourn, celebrate, rage, and remember. Slantwise fulfills the hope Adcock once expressed in an interview: ""to tell the truth and find that it is music.""

From Asides: ""And in countries made of blood-feud and sand, // didn't women turn from murmured prayers // toward the sky's answer, blank bluepoint-blank burning glass? // And here, as in the slant light of every September, // caterpillars moved slowly along the turning leaves; // the cricket opened and shut his rusted door // into autumn; one particular firefly went out, // the last low star of the season, indifferentas a nova to what men have made. Our marvelous // looking-glass holds, in its network of steel // and invisible signal, history and myth // and money laid across the world. // That great snare shines in its cables // like the orb-weaver's art, trembles fragile // as any web on night grass in a field of starlight.