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Cloud of Ink (2011)

af L. S. Klatt

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2610884,916 (3)1
On the surface, L. S. Klatt's poems are airy and humorous-with their tales of chickens wandering the highways of Ohio and Winnebago trailers rolling up to heaven and whales bumping like watermelons in a bathtub-but just under the surface they turn disconcertingly serious as they celebrate the fluent word. Under the heat of inquiry, under the pressure of metaphor, the poems in Cloud of Ink liquefy, bend, and serpentine as they seek sometimes a new and sometimes an ancient destination. They present the reader with existential questions as they side-wind into t… (mere)
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This review was written for LibraryThing Early Reviewers.
L.S. Klatt writes tightly constructed, well-honed poems. His lines are rarely more than 8 syllables; only one poem in the book is longer than a page. White space dominates. He has found a good metaphor in the octopus and ink, and like the octopus, the ink in these poems often obscures more than it defines. Ultimately, that is the real weakness of these poems. Klatt has often pared away so much that there is no support for what is left. The poems sometimes echo empty, or exist only for the sound of the words and a few clever puns. That isn't to say there aren't good poems in the collection, but the overall quality isn't as high as I had hoped. Klatt certainly has talent, particularly when it comes to the sounds of words strung together. In the future, I hope he leaves more supporting words to allow his meaning to be more apparent. ( )
1 stem wrmjr66 | Jun 15, 2011 |
This review was written for LibraryThing Early Reviewers.
I liked some of the unusual wordplay and images exhibited in these poems, but overall I found the poems as a whole to be too opaque to really enjoy. I don't read a whole lot of poetry, so it's possible that maybe I missed what the poet was trying to achieve, but the general feeling was that he was trying too hard. For most of the poems I was drawn into them at the beginning with wonderful settings, but then they would get weird(er) and a bit incomprehensible.

There were some wonderful phrases though, particularly, "So many mistook my passion for gangrene" from the poem Liquefaction which I love no matter how you read the line.

The slim volume is certainly worth taking a look at. It may be that I have simply mistaken the poet's passion for gangrene. ( )
1 stem macsbrains | May 4, 2011 |
This review was written for LibraryThing Early Reviewers.
I was happy to receive a volume of poetry as my Early Reviewer book, especially since I haven't been much in the poetry loop lately. I did not connect with these poems in the way I had hoped. The references to Darwin, Melville, Emerson, and Salinger, and artists Picasso, Miro, Audubon and Wyeth are clearly drawn, and well done; however the metaphors employed in many of the poems seemed clunky or forced, rather than whimsical or meaningful (porcupine footballs, catfish jaguars, the sun a knuckleball) to me. Other images were lovely – the seedlings – “aspirants” - on the porcupine’s back carried away out of the forest in “Nocturnal Movements of the Porcupine,” the house underwater in “Affliction” with its moon jellyfish at the window.

The poems that eluded me most were “Transit of the Beautiful” and “The Pear as Wild Boar.” The latter employs metaphor in a way that was unappealing to me, ponderous and in an effort to be richly carnal instead became silly. The former begins:

Cockroach on the lip
of a teacup

while the woman upstairs

puts a bag over her head
& gasses the house.

Whether a meditation on destruction/survival or an examination of how/why to go on, to continue – a human question, not one other creatures often ask themselves – the language, imagery and tone of the poem just push me away. With most of these poems I find myself struggling to make sense of the metaphors – not the meanings but the why of the juxtapositions. There’s plenty of room for interpretation, the poems themselves are quite spare. At times reading these poems felt like having a pigeon fly into your house through an open window and getting stuck inside, flapping hopelessly around from room to room, seeing all the windows open but somehow unable to get out again. (There’s my own, feel free to let me have it!)

I am returning to critical writing and thinking about poetry after quite some time; I was an English major as an undergraduate, but spent most of my time on 19th century (and earlier) poets. I do have great affection for modern poetry (Kenneth Koch and Nuala Ni Dhomhnaill are favorites). In college I loved Dickinson, Whitman and Blake, and Shakespeare. And I have lots of Edward Lear. Klatt’s humor (the poem “Ohio” with the propane tanks that “stand breast to breast/like white chickens” has a goofy logic) and his Darwinian evolution thread running through the book were both enjoyable. I think the strength of this collection is his use of imagery of the natural world (when it is not heavy-handed or awkward); when he is immersed in these themes, in this collection, I think he is most successful. ( )
2 stem sionnac | Apr 21, 2011 |
This review was written for LibraryThing Early Reviewers.
Contemporary poetry tends to fall into two large, general categories (and hundreds of small, specific ones). The broad categories might be labeled direct and oblique. The first category, as former US Poet Laureate Billy Collins has said, consists of clear, accessible poems, usually short – poems that most any reader will “get” on a first reading. Many of these poems have little twists and turns, reversals and surprising phrases, images, and ideas, so that even an experienced, knowledgeable reader may say, “Ah, I hadn’t expected that!” The surprise may be puzzling, even enigmatic, but it will not be obtuse, and it will not keep any decent reader from “getting” what the poet is saying.

Collins himself is one of the best known living poets whose works generally exemplify such direct, accessible verse. He designed a website called Poetry 180 and published two anthologies with the goal of introducing such poetry to high-school students (a poem a day) and, hopefully, winning them back over to the reading of poetry. Ted Kooser and Kay Ryan are two other recent poets laureate whose work is almost always direct and accessible, who make efforts to attract a wider readership. Mary Oliver is another popular living poet whose poems speak directly to her readers.

On the other hand, oblique poetry is, by nature, obscure. It is likely to require several readings, even intense study, on the part of even the best readers. It is characterized by paradox and ambiguity, irony and conundrum, complexity and allusiveness, submerged metaphors and remote allusions, what some might even call deliberate obfuscation.

Collins describes some such poetry:

"Just as poetry provides a home for ambiguity, it offers difficulty a place to be dramatized if not solved. 'Even in our games,' asserts John Ciardi, 'we demand difficulty.' Which explains why ice hockey is played on ice and why chess involves more than two warring queens chasing each other around the board. During the heyday of [Ezra] Pound, [T.S.] Eliot, [Wallace] Stevens, and [Hart] Crane – the Mount Rushmore of modernism – difficulty became a criterion for appraising poetic value Opacity became . . . closely associated with modernist poetry . . . . Of course, the conceptual demands some poems make on their readers can provide an essential pleasure . . . ."
(Poetry 180, pxviii])

What Collins doesn’t do is to distinguish between the modern poetry of Eliot and colleagues and the postmodern poetry now being written, published, recognized and rewarded. In modernist poetry it is difficult to discern the poet’s “meaning,” the theme or underlying statement, but ultimately such “meaning” is decipherable to sophisticated readers. The emphasis, however, is not on what the poem means but, as Ciardi said, how a poem means. Archibald MacLeish gave the movement its motto: "A poem must not mean but but."

The postmodern poetry, however (as Collins says) doesn’t make sense. Its aim is not to make sense but to evoke an experience of language, its imagery, sounds, syntax, parallels and the juxtaposition of diverse elements. Maybe it reflects the disorder of a postmodern world or the ambivalence of subjective experience. But it cannot be reduced to a thematic statement, a “direct meaning.” There is none.

Perhaps an analogy from modern art clarifies the issue. In 1948, two famous paintings were done: Christina’s World by Andrew Wyeth depicts a young woman crawling through a sweeping treeless field toward a distant house, weathered gray with gray outbuildings around it. To some viewers it is “modern” because of its vision of nature as indifferent and of human experience as a struggle with loneliness, distance, disability, and world-weariness. Though it is in the permanent collection of the Museum of Modern Art, this masterpiece of modern realism is displayed – significantly – on the fifth floor near the restrooms. Most critics would descroibe it not as modern but as conventional or "traditional."

At about the same time, Jackson Pollock was producing No. 5 1948, a painting he created by pouring or dripping household paint on a large fiberboard spread out on the floor. Of course, he abandoned figurative representation altogether. What you see is not a reflection of something outside the painting itself, but simply a design: colors, texture, swirls, a sense of balance, depth, and movement. His technique came to be called abstract expressionism. At the time, Pollock’s painting was the subject of intense controversy and negative criticism. He was called “Jack the Dripper.” However, this painting is now seen as defining painting for the era and, indeed, the very concept of art. It last sold for nearly $150 million, the highest price ever paid for a painting at the time.

Looking for “meaning” in postmodern poetry would be as frustrating as looking for something like Christina’s world in the paint dripped and poured onto the surface of Pollock’s No. 5 1948. Readers often find the experience of postmodern poetry as frustrating as viewers did Pollock’s abstract expressionism. They’re looking for something meaningful, like Christina and the farm house in the distance; what they find are drips and sprinkles of words. Of course, the poet’s use of language tends to call up imagery from an external world, but its obliqueness denies any possible “statement” of its “meaning.” Billy Collins uses a reverse syllogism to convey most readers’ response:

I understand English.
This poem is written in English.
I have no idea what this poem is saying.

The University of Iowa Writers’ Workshop tends to produce poets of such a postmodern ilk. Their poems don’t make sense; at least, not in the usual way we use that phrase. Hence, the University of Iowa Press publishes, rewards, and promotes such poetry. L.S. Klatt’s work is a perfect example. In fact, unless I’m mistaken, the poet is quite self-consciously demonstrating how the poet’s work is parallel to Pollock’s painting, how postmodern poetry is the verbal counterpart of abstract expression. His sprinkling ink on the page is not unlike Pollock’s dripping and pouring paint. What he gives us is a “cloud of ink,” as the title of his collection reports (University of Iowa Press, 2011). Floating around in that cloud certainly doesn’t give one a clear picture of the earth and its people. In fact, most of his poems just don’t make sense at all.

So why are they so fascinating? What has prompted me to read all of them at least twice, and some of them several times over? Subconsciously, I suppose I’m still searching for “meaning,” and being frustrated at not finding it, even after fastidious attention to the words, to syntax, to imagery and allusions. But also I’m admittedly enjoying the experience, and trying to answer for myself what the sources of my satisfaction are.

I think Klatt provides some guidance in his first poem, “Aeronautics.” He transforms himself, the poet, into a pilot (“Whereupon you are alone / in a cockpit”) and his readers into passengers (“a multitude behind you sealed tight”). Together they are caught in “an updraft / of ampersands & colophons”and then borne into “a stratosphere yet to be / graphed.” The plane, in the last line, “aligns itself into nebula.” Sounds like a “cloud of ink” to me. Ok, ok, there are lots of details one doesn’t get, like “the date of your own death,” but somehow one experiences “skyward the flyer, folded in half, of blue wove / paper.”

The poems at the end of the collection, similarly oblique, do carry forward the same kinds of imagery. Next to the last poem is “The Author,” which begins

A man made of cloud
would have to be unbearable. . . .

How
sad if he gave up
longhand waiting for the infinite
to be bitten. . . .

The very last one, “For Lack of a Better Word,” must be a kind of apologia. In it he uses his “tongue” (presumably language) to seek meadowlarks and hinterlands, but also knows he may find piranha sleeping on red velvet or “many terrible winged things / such as seraphim.” He’s still speaking obliquely, very obliquely, and he says so himself, quite candidly, in the last three lines of this last poem:

If you could speak plainly
out in the open
you would never paint your tongue.

Oh, yes, Klatt speaks obliquely – proudly, sometimes pleasantly, sometimes passionately, always insistently. And he leaves the reader floating in a cloud of ink

For example, he bids farewell to Andrew Wyeth – quite literally, and metaphorically, and phantasmagorically (in “Andrew Wyeth, Painter, Dies at 91”). The first lines put us right in Christina’s well-known world (“A weathered barn on a hilltop”), but he makes her “a nude woman / sprawled on the slope / below.” And from that point on we go downhill, where things get cloudier and inkier. Immediately,

A giant squid rises out of a hayfield, & the barn
is encompassed in tentacles
then a cloud of ink.

So, of course, we are not the least surprised when the next three lines give us (presumably) the poet again:

A man with a fountain pen in his hand
& a pitchfork
in his back

You’ll have to read the poem yourself to see what happens, or rather not to see what never really happens. Suffice it to say that “cows can’t be heard for certain / within the inkblot.”

This particular poem illustrates one of the qualities that make the poems – which, of course, I don’t understand – so fascinating to me anyway. They don’t make sense, but they pretend to make sense, they almost make sense sometimes, they feel like they make sense. And, furthermore, the imagery is so striking that it catches the reader up in this strange other-worldly world, maybe more like Picasso’s fractured and reconstructed reality than Pollock’s blobs. The juxtaposition of absolutely unrelated artifacts somehow turn out to have all sorts of relationships if you really think about it: what better way to describe an artist (or an oblique poet) than as a man with a fountain pen in his hand and a pitchfork in his back. Of course, it isn’t just a pen, it’s a “fountain” pen, and the pitchfork simply sharpens the pen and thrusts it deep into the creative artist; as artifact it keeps us down on the farm, but as symbol it pushes us into the hell-fire torment of Satan and his angels, and all the while we know that the pen and the pitchfork, the barn and the nude, a giant squid of all things, even the cows we can’t hear – they all are simply inkblots that the poet is whirling around (like “ampersands & colophons”). See what I mean? Though it makes no sense at all, it sorta makes sense.

That squid and his sea-mates keep recurring throughout the collection. “Liquefaction” begins

I found an octopus in the snow. . . .

To me, up to my elbows in bladder, the ink was a surprise. . . .

The weird juxtapositions bombard us: the ink becomes opera gloves, he slips into an orchestra pit (“If only I could say now / what my arms said”), he hurls a bassoon at a chandelier, the audience “lost their places” (don’t we all!?).

They were swimming in a maelstrom of inklings.

The ink sea-creatures remind me of another feature of this book that definitely merits mention: its design. April Leidig-Higgins is given credit for the text design, and deservedly so. The typography and the white space, with 63 poems on 64 pages of print, are quite simple and attractive. Furthermore, Klatt gives credit to many of the sources that triggered his poems in the first place, some of them quite surprising and informative, but also fascinating; for example, headlines from NY Tmes obituaries (“Andrew Wyeth…”), Herman Melville’s letters (“Aeronautics”), a Joan Miró painting The Red Disk in Pursuit of the Lark (“For Lack of a Better Word”). This careful crediting is noticeable. Curiously, no credit is given for the art work on the book cover. Whether the omission is intentional, thoughtless, or a simple oversight, it is unfortunate, for the cover is quite relevant to the subject of some of the poems and itself deserves close attention. It is obviously a reproduction of a page from an ancient book devoted to zoological taxonomy; namely, a page of Vermes (“worms”). This term reflects the taxonomy of Linneaus (later revised considerably) and includes such mollusks as gastropods (slugs and snails) and cephalopods (squid, cuttlefish, and octopus). Though the print is barely decipherable, the page excerpted on the cover features several varieties of cuttlefish (also called inkfish). The ones shown have big heads, bulging eyes, tentacles and eight arms. They look somewhat phallic and/or vaginal. They are all noted, of course, for shooting out “clouds of ink.”

But it is the nature of the poetry that makes the book so intriguing: its picturesqueness, its idiosyncratic juxtapositions, the appeal of its phrasing, its rhythms and playfulness. Let me quote just a few first lines of poems to demonstrate these qualities and the variety of the apparent subject matter of these poems:

And out of the mouth
of the beetle rides an acrid river
of spittle.
(“Darwin’s Mouth”)

The Oval occupies the mind; it does whatever it pleases.
(“Ovation”)

When you sense a misfire in the brain
it’s wistful to seize upon a yak, neck-deep
in the Yangtse . . . .
(“The Calm of a Thoughtful Sentence”)

A sad iceberg & swamped Venice: a plate
of squid ink, a granule of sugar on the lip . . . .
(“Acqua Alta”)

The spiny pigskin flinches.
(“Nocturnal Movements of the Porcupine”)

The female Christ swims into lagoon
a stingray, fanning. Gargantuan, she blooms . . . .
(“She Makes Me Lie Down”)

Things are said in a great, crow-filled tree,
enough to seed a cloud with black letters.
(“Lines of Motion”)

However, there is one other quality of the poems that I want to emphasize. To do so, I’m going to do the unforgivable. I’m going to paraphrase an entire poem so that you get the narrative in ordinary prose; then I’m going to quote several lines from the beginning of the poem and the end, so that you can see how the sounds of the poem and its scrupulous phrasing lift it to another level. The title is “Where My Sunflower Wishes to Go.”

A goldsmith made a sunflower for a yard ornament by beating some waste trinkets together. But the sunflower protested loudly because it was tasteless, brassy, and it couldn’t move with the sun like other sunflowers.
So the sun took pity on the ornament and melted it down into liquid. And the goldsmith doused his hands in the liquid, so they hardened.
While he was in this condition, he found a finch laying an egg in a trash can, but he couldn’t handle the bird or the egg with his fingers welded together.
However, he was charmed by the egg yolk under the blue enamel sky. It cast his shadow on the sidewalk, and bees trod on it with their sweet honeyed feet.

There in a clumsy, prosaic version you have the details of the account,. It doesn't really make sense, but you can already begin to see the possibility: the vivid imagery, the unexpected course of events, the inexplicable details, the juxtaposition of diverse images (the goldsmith, the metallic yard ornament, the pitying sun, the liquefying of the sunflower, the petrifying of the goldsmith’s hands, his shadow on the sidewalk, bees walking on it).

Now listen to a few lines from the beginning of the poem, and then from the ending. Read them aloud; listen carefully. See if you can determine why the poet’s version is so much more pleasing to the reader than the tale told in everyday prose.

A goldsmith hammered a sunflower
out of recycled trinkets. It howled

because it was tasteless, because it was
brassy. It could not turn to the sun

like other heliotropes. So the sun

had pity on the yard ornament
& melted it down with ardor.

. . . . . . . . . .

But the yoke beneath the blue enamel

of the sky made him happy. It cast
his silhouette on the sidewalk while bees

trampled it with mellifluous feet.

As you can see, some of the language is simply more picturesque and engaging than my clumsy prose paraphrase: “hammered” instead of “beat”; “howled” instead of “protested”; “heliotropes” instead of repeating “sunflowers”; “silhouette” instead of “shadow”; “trampled” instead of “trod”; “mellifluous” instead of “sweet honeyed.” The phrasing is more fluid, more appropriate to the “liquefaction” of the metallic artifact.

Then there’s a drama going on among the words themselves, a confrontation within the language which isn’t resolved until the last line, a quality of sound that one experiences but isn’t likely to be consciousof without careful, prolonged analysis, The hissing sibilants (all those “s’s”) are demanding attention, exerting control, but the calm nasals (the “m’s” and “n’s”) will not remain silent; they will not be put down. In the first few lines there are the goldsmith, the sunflower, the recycled trinkets, “because it was tasteless,” then “because it was brassy” (repeating the phrase), the sun, and even the heliotropes: all of these hiss like a serpent in the garden, especially emphatic in the tasteless, brassy recycled trinkets, but also in the goldsmith and the sun, indeed in all of the characters. t Toward the end the s’s are still exerting themselves: the sky, “cast / his silhouette on the sidewalk,” even among the bees.

But at the beginning the calm, creativity of those nasals will not be completely silent. Buried in the middle of goldsmith, sunflower, trinkets, sounding forceful in “hammered,” and gaining quiet momentum in “ornament” and “melted.” Then, toward the conclusion, the sound of “enamel” somehow echoes “hammered” with its pleasant, promising presence, and after the insistent hissing of the penultimate line, the sweet calmness of those nurturing, mothering “m’s” have the last word

trampled it with mellifluous feet

I don’t want to go too far in personifying the sounds (maybe I already have). After all, it’s an oblique poem – a very oblique poem, so we don’t want it to make too much sense, do we? But there is something harsh about those metallic trinkets, in the stiffened immobility of the sunflower and the goldsmith’s “welded” hands. There’s something dark and harsh about the silhouette on the sidewalk. And there is something lively, creative, imaginative, transformative in those m’s: trinkets hammered into an ornament, the trampling of the shadow on the concrete with “mellifluous” feet.

Never mind. Forget about my allegorical experience of the conflict. Just listen to the sounds. They, too, are simply inkblots in the page, words thrown out with ampersands and colophons. But the ear hears them singing underneath the surface, and one’s spirit feels a triumph in that last line, more than one would expect simply from bees’ feet plodding on a sidewalk. Hammering and trampling, indeed, speak to one another from the first line to the last. They speak of suffering, of the rough treatment that genuine transformation requires. But, after all, it’s the hammering that turns useless trinkets into an ornament; and it’s the trampling that turns the goldsmith’s silhouette – his other self, his dark shadow – into something pleasant, something sweet, something that makes him happy.

Bujt cease and desist. At my back I already hear a gaggle of postmodernists voicing contempt for reviews like this one. “Oh no, not another academic searching for meaning,” they say. “Won’t they ever learn. Still, they ‘murder to dissect.’ Can’t they figure out what Archibald MacLeish meant when he told them, ‘A poem must not mean but be’? Still they’re guilty of the intentional fallacy and the heresy of paraphrase. Deliver us!” It’s almost as if Jackson Pollack had heard someone trying to find Christina’s world hidden behind his squiggles of paint so freely dripped and poured and splashed, almost unconsciously as in a dance.

And of postmodernist poets there are many. Once the Iowa Writers Workshop was one of the few places where young poets could go to immerse themselves in learning their craft. Now, I read somewhere, there are over 800 such programs, in virtually every major college and university across the US, most of them founded and staffed by alumni of the Iowa Workshop and others like it.

They do dominate the scene where contemporary poetry is concerned. It is they who edit poetry journals, selecting and publishing one another’s works. It is they who choose which collections of poetry will be published by most major university presses. It is they who review these books in literary reviews and (though not as often) in newspapers and magazines, like the New York Times and Atlantic Monthly. It is they who help one another get positions, tenure, and promotions. It is they who serve as judges for the multitude of awards now available for poets, like the Iowa Poetry Prize, which L.S. Klatt received for Cloud of Ink.

And to be quite frank, theirreviews of one another's work sometimes are just as hard to understand as the poetry, but for a different reason. They rely on airy abstractions that gush with praise. The one flaw in the pre-publication copy of this book that I received is the blurbs on the back cover. “vexed wistfulness,” “loquacious and beautiful, strange and transparent,” “spare and diffuse lyrics,” “a complex and rich vision, generous in intention, provocative in enactment, ecstatic in spirit.” “a dark and lasting impression.” The key phrase is “never transparent.” These abstractions all translate to say in so many words, “Never fear, fellow postmodernists, he’s one of us.” Oblique. Obtuse. Opaque. Appropriately obfuscated. Never transparent.

Billy Collins has let himself become the advocate of accessibility, hence an apostate among contemporary poets. He comes right out with his denunciation of such “critical” reviews:

"Clarity is the real risk in poetry," he insists. "To be clear means putting yourself up to judgment. The willfully obscure poem is a hiding place where the poet can elude the reader and thus make appraisal impossible, irrelevant – a bourgeois intrusion upon the poets. Which is why much of the commentary on obscure poetry produces the same kind of headache as the poems themselves." (Poetry 180, pxix)

I must admit that I am usually as impatient with oblique poetry and such high-flown reviews as Collins is. I wonder what he would have to say about Cloud of Ink? Something tells me that he, too, would see its workmanship, sense the “meaning” it suggests, and if he were once again editing Best American Poetry, he would select one of Klatt’s poems to represent the best of the oblique.

Oh, and every once in a while, Klatt has a poem that’s, well, almost accessible, like “George Keats” based on a 1922 NY Times article entitled “Tracing the Keats Family in America.” Or the little ten-line poem “Husbandry” set in the University Swine Center where

The horseflies too are clean
& green glorious.
as if the shit here
is full of fruit & fiber.

There you have it: the juxtaposition of opposites, a picturesque image, a dance of sound (submerged rhyme, alliteration, consonance), a hint of allusiveness, paradox, shock, all perfectly accessible, even to Collins’ high-school students hearing a poem a day over the loudspeaker (can’t you just imagine that?), & those ampersands, too.

I would recommend that Collins read and use Cloud of Ink. I recommend the same to you.

I think Klatt tells us how to read his poetry in a poem called “Reading.”

In the stern of the sailboat
a god

neither invited nor expected
pilots

a rudder through space

God is our co-pilot. ( )
  bfrank | Apr 19, 2011 |
This review was written for LibraryThing Early Reviewers.
Klatt makes many whimsical connections in his verse, giving this collection an atmosphere of playfulness. His poem “Liquefaction” is a particularly fun and memorable example. Sometimes these bundles of lighthearted images allude to something deeper or darker, but in many of these poems, they are just what they seem: a lover of words at play, a gathering of “inklings.” ( )
1 stem llusby23 | Apr 18, 2011 |
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On the surface, L. S. Klatt's poems are airy and humorous-with their tales of chickens wandering the highways of Ohio and Winnebago trailers rolling up to heaven and whales bumping like watermelons in a bathtub-but just under the surface they turn disconcertingly serious as they celebrate the fluent word. Under the heat of inquiry, under the pressure of metaphor, the poems in Cloud of Ink liquefy, bend, and serpentine as they seek sometimes a new and sometimes an ancient destination. They present the reader with existential questions as they side-wind into t

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