In this haunting, beautiful third collection from Jill Bialosky, the poet examines the intrusion of eros, art, and the imagination on ordinary life. I thought about losing D. But the poems work toward formal resolutions. The dark and beautiful third collection from Jill Bialosky is a book about the intrusion of eros, art, and the imagination on ordinary life. My body served only one purpose: It had become a vessel with which to sustain this child.
Brutal hands, a slash of red. In these longer narratives, whether pitched as fables or character profiles, Bialosky seems less driven to contain and more at ease to let an impulse play itself out. When I imagine my reader, I imagine the reader in a quiet, private space reading my work. I think the book is riskier, more idea driven perhaps than my first two books. I rubbed my eyelashes on his cheek in imitation of a butterfly. To find a construction or structure that captures a slice of reality in a way that is engaging and seductive.
What more was there to crave when every part of myself was devoted to this child? Each poem is a return engagement, another stab at pinning down some aspect of a complex experience. I was playing with this theme when I was writing that particular poem and in general many of the poems that make up Intruder. I loved to study the perfect shape of his head. Reprinted with the permission of Alfred A. He blurted it out over our cheese-and-pepper pizza and glass of red wine. Let's go to the park, the beach, Rugrats in Paris, I want this, Mommy, can I have that? I also created a figure who appears throughout the book in many guises — an intruder so to speak — who sometimes appears as doppelganger, as imagined lover, as muse, to challenge the poet.
I was a poet working as an editorial assistant in New York. The kind where I'd be embarrassed the next morning running into our next-door neighbor in the elevator. Like whispers in a fierce forest. I hope voice is a constant, and attention to music and rhythm and craft. We went skiing, ice-skating, and to the movies any night we pleased. I'll leave that to the individual reader to decide, but one thing it isn't is poetry.
The boy's in the tub, father's shaving, mother is dressed in her evening wear: black silk slip, high heels, leaning on the tub's edge. Being desired had given me power and a strong sense of self. With that said, I have to ask you—because I feel his presence in your poems—whether you see Robert Frost as an influence on your aesthetic. There were a few experiments in structure that didn't really work, and the poem about surfers was such a juvenile theme that it really didn't belong with the rest of her work here. I do, however, feel as if the poems are fueled more by the imagination and invention than the poems in my earlier two books. The creation of the observing mind is paramount here; whether the lover goes or stays, the poems remain. And this image blossomed in my head of D.
I hope my poems might do that for a reader. The man I married got up in the morning as tired as I. Then I got to the fifth section of the book, and it all came back. At the table next to us, a couple hovered over their cappuccinos in intense conversation. He enters the room and is not afraid. I was also attempting to challenge some notions of poetic conceit and aesthetic.
And landscape and place indeed informs who we are: our moral center. Evoking Penelope and Orpheus and Eurydice, Bialosky explores how desire and the act of creation can both threaten the self and bring us to a powerful self-understanding. Once we moved in together, in my studio apartment just large enough for a pullout couch, our days and nights were fueled by adventure. Evoking Penelope and Odysseus and Orpheus and Eurydice, Bialosky asks us to consider the instability of the self and the myriad forms it can take through art, in poems that are sexy, dark, and at once cool and emotional. And like almost every other woman I knew who was juggling careers and motherhood and the complicated demands of marriage, I found myself wondering about my life. It was white a Jill Bialosky, Intruder Knopf, 2008 I read Jill Bialosky's The End of Desire a few years back, and found it enjoyable enough if rough around the edges.
I tried to picture what life would be like without my husband. The intensity of their internal experiences makes them worry over their relations with the world. In his eyes I saw the two sturdy pillars I leaned against: He had given me the security and safety and love to become a mother, to go after my dreams as a writer. It slashed against the shingles, as if the house were a boat and subject to the tide of the water. My friends confessed they did, too. I wanted the book to question and challenge the notion of selfhood and the different levels of reality we inhabit. It was as if I were on holiday from my marriage, on a grand vacation, alone with myself, free in my own thoughts.
We sat in two seats facing the runway, mad with the inexplicable euphoria of two people in love, until the next flight began to board and D. And it was entering my son's art room when the creation of this figure began to blossom in my imagination. The boy's in the tub, Father's shaving, Mother is dressed in her evening wear: black silk slip, high heels, leaning on the tub's edge. Bialosky is an editor at W. We were doing the big things now, the real things, living the future we had dreamed. I called him goose and boo and bandito ban dox and dolly and my little tulip.