Must-Read Poetry: April 2019

Here are six notable books of poetry publishing in April.

Honeyfish by Lauren K. Alleyne

There’s not a page in Honeyfish untouched by grace and grief. In “How to Watch Your Son Die”: “His name // will become a strange music / in the foreign instrument of your voice.” The masterful “Killed Boy, Beautiful World” sings and stings: “How ruthless with beauty / the world seems, clouds / tumbling in streams of white, / the sky dappled, then clear, / then blotted with rain; the news / of death and more death.” And yet: “you want to hold on to it, / this life that breaks you again / and again.” Viscerally real poems invoked to Trayvon Martin and Tamir Rice live next to poems of metaphor, as with “The Pain Fair”: “The opening act is breaking / all manner of things open: / wishes, bones, hearts, glass / eyes, brains.” The crowd applauds “politely: we know / this is nothing impressive.” Next, the magician commands from the crowd “first heartaches, first betrayals, / they resound like phantom / symphonies, notes swelling / our chests like air into balloons.” A unique talent, Alleyne’s skilled lines levitate with something more: passion, grace, and a willingness to ask questions that linger. “Heaven?” ends with one such unanswered question: “How many angels weep / when a black girl is torn / into wings?” An excellent book.

The Tradition by Jericho Brown

“I mean, don’t you want God / To want you? Don’t you dream / Of someone with wings taking you / Up?” Brown has a preternatural sense of pacing, which I suspect is one reason why he’s one of the most commanding of contemporary poets. Gravity in verse goes a long way, and Brown’s lines feel well-worn, fully-thought, complete. From “As a Human Being”: “There is the happiness you have / And the happiness you deserve. / They sit apart from each other / The way you and your mother / Sat on opposite sides of the sofa / After an ambulance came to take / Your father away.” Effortless, we know, is is a powerful collection—an affirmation of love. “I thought then / Of holding you / As a political act,” the narrator says in “Stand.” “I / May as well have / Held myself.”