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PRAISE for Dialogues with Rising Tides:
“(A)ll objects,” Kelli Russell Agodon writes, “are composed of vibrating anxieties,” as are these poems, tremulous as a tuning fork, conductive as a lightning rod, teetering between a precarious, hopeful tenderness and dread. There are collisions—“a lightship / crashing against a blue shore of healing”—and gentler dialogues, even poems-as-waltzes, which nonetheless feature inferences of betrayal. The ballast, the queen, is the speaker herself, whose powerful vulnerability is matched only by her wit. “At a Cocktail Party, I Am Given a Drink Called, Life is Fleeting and the Olive Is Short-Lived,” for instance, one in a series of fabulous titles that are poems unto themselves. “No one expects perfection, except when they do, which is always,” she tells us, and I find myself wanting to throw my arm over her shoulder and saying yes, I get it, sister, I know, while we walk down the beach feeling “bamboozled / by life,” discovering the spider building a web in our dead father’s prosthetic leg. This is the book I need right here, right now, as the fires burn and the tides rise.
~ Diane Seuss
“(A)ll objects,” Kelli Russell Agodon writes, “are composed of vibrating anxieties,” as are these poems, tremulous as a tuning fork, conductive as a lightning rod, teetering between a precarious, hopeful tenderness and dread. There are collisions—“a lightship / crashing against a blue shore of healing”—and gentler dialogues, even poems-as-waltzes, which nonetheless feature inferences of betrayal. The ballast, the queen, is the speaker herself, whose powerful vulnerability is matched only by her wit. “At a Cocktail Party, I Am Given a Drink Called, Life is Fleeting and the Olive Is Short-Lived,” for instance, one in a series of fabulous titles that are poems unto themselves. “No one expects perfection, except when they do, which is always,” she tells us, and I find myself wanting to throw my arm over her shoulder and saying yes, I get it, sister, I know, while we walk down the beach feeling “bamboozled / by life,” discovering the spider building a web in our dead father’s prosthetic leg. This is the book I need right here, right now, as the fires burn and the tides rise.
~ Diane Seuss
Hourglass Museum
Finalist for the Washington State Book Award
Finalist for the Julie Suk Prize
Best Book of Poetry from an Indie Press
Finalist for the Washington State Book Award
Finalist for the Julie Suk Prize
Best Book of Poetry from an Indie Press
Letters from the Emily Dickinson Room
Foreword's Book of the Year Winner in Poetry
Voted top 20 Books on GoodReads for Poetry
Washington State Book Prize Finalist
Foreword's Book of the Year Winner in Poetry
Voted top 20 Books on GoodReads for Poetry
Washington State Book Prize Finalist
