Blood Lyrics: Poems
(Adobe EPUB eBook, Kindle Book, OverDrive Read)
"Katie Ford's is a finely-wrought lyrical beauty, a poetry of detail and care, but she has set it within an epic arc." —Poetry
I lie still, play dead, am delivered decree:
our daughter weighs seven hundred dimes,
paperclips, teaspoons of sugar,
this child of grams
for which the good nurse
laid out her studies
as a coin purse
into which our tiny wealth clinked,
our daughter spilling almost
to the floor.
—from "Of a Child Early Born"
In Katie Ford's third collection, she sets her music into lyrics wrung from the world's dangers. Blood Lyrics is a mother's song, one seared with the knowledge that her country wages long, aching wars in which not all lives are equal. There is beauty imparted, too, but it arrives at a cost: "Don't say it's the beautiful / I praise," Ford writes. "I praise the human, / gutted and rising."
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Katie Ford. (2014). Blood Lyrics: Poems. Graywolf Press.
Chicago / Turabian - Author Date Citation (style guide)Katie Ford. 2014. Blood Lyrics: Poems. Graywolf Press.
Chicago / Turabian - Humanities Citation (style guide)Katie Ford, Blood Lyrics: Poems. Graywolf Press, 2014.
MLA Citation (style guide)Katie Ford. Blood Lyrics: Poems. Graywolf Press, 2014.
| Library | Owned | Available |
|---|---|---|
| Shared Digital Collection | 0 | 0 |
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- bioText: Katie Ford is the author of two previous poetry collections, Colosseum and Deposition. She has received a Lannan Literary Fellowship and the Larry Levis Reading Award. She lives in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, and teaches at Franklin & Marshall College.
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"Katie Ford's is a finely-wrought lyrical beauty, a poetry of detail and care, but she has set it within an epic arc." —Poetry
I lie still, play dead, am delivered decree:
our daughter weighs seven hundred dimes,
paperclips, teaspoons of sugar,
this child of grams
for which the good nurse
laid out her studies
as a coin purse
into which our tiny wealth clinked,
our daughter spilling almost
to the floor.
—from "Of a Child Early Born"
In Katie Ford's third collection, she sets her music into lyrics wrung from the world's dangers. Blood Lyrics is a mother's song, one seared with the knowledge that her country wages long, aching wars in which not all lives are equal. There is beauty imparted, too, but it arrives at a cost: "Don't say it's the beautiful / I praise," Ford writes. "I praise the human, / gutted and rising."- isOwnedByCollections
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"Katie Ford's is a finely-wrought lyrical beauty, a poetry of detail and care, but she has set it within an epic arc." —Poetry
I lie still, play dead, am delivered decree:
our daughter weighs seven hundred dimes,
paperclips, teaspoons of sugar,
this child of grams
for which the good nurse
laid out her studies
as a coin purse
into which our tiny wealth clinked,
our daughter spilling almost
to the floor.
—from "Of a Child Early Born"
In Katie Ford's third collection, she sets her music into lyrics wrung from the world's dangers. Blood Lyrics is a mother's song, one seared with the knowledge that her country wages long, aching wars in which not all lives are equal. There is beauty imparted, too, but it arrives at a cost: "Don't say it's the beautiful / I praise," Ford writes. "I praise the human, / gutted and rising."- sortTitle
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- source: David Rigsbee, The Cortland Review
- content: "Katie Ford has emerged as one of the most recognizably thoughtful poets of her talented generation. Manifesting a rigorous aesthetic combining allusiveness with inwardness, her poems mark the multivalent ways by which the moral conscience registers dailiness with history (also myth) and how consciousness itself perceives the relationship of the small to the overwhelming, the weak to the deadly, the remote to the pressing moment, the insignificant to the topical."
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October 20, 2014
In her third collection, Ford (Colosseum) uses a child’s premature birth as an opportunity for reflection on human vulnerability, violence, and survival. Her finely wrought paeans and laments complicate the possibility of total joy or total despair when personal pain is not projected externally or the existence of others’ suffering is not apparent in our own daily lives: “I nightmared/ far from her// my body/ her empty tomb// all the while/ the earth laid down/ its brutal head/ it would not lament.” Ford also expresses incredulity regarding the invisibility of America’s current wars at home when she writes, “If we are at war, let the orchards show it.... If we wage it, let the war breach up/ into the light, let it unseam our garments... until we run to hide ourselves/ in alleys where at least rats and refuse/ and the sleeping poor show some partial ghost/ of what’s abroad.” Taken together, the poems become a meditation on the concurrence of abundance and peril, where sumptuous language expresses stark suffering and musical phrasing portrays a world of discord. Given these conditions, on the prospect “That it is even possible to stay alive,” Ford posits, “we should wake/ to each other and ransack/ this flushed skin of everything/ but praise.”
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