With the prisms of varied vocabularies refracting detail and language, Sarah Lang illuminates the intricacies of communication, of the moments and gaps between action and reaction, and, as she does, announces herself as a commanding and rhythmically captivating new poetic presence.
The first section of this extended meditation borrows from The Farmer’s Almanac, while the second is infused with the language of the occult. In the third part, Lang invokes the vocabulary of the institution � the airport, the hospital. In the end, these linguistic pillagings accrete into a poignant shadow under the letters of Lang’s own words, pulling them into a stark and alluring focus. With echoes of Virginia Woolf, Lang has given us a constellation of poems as delicate and relentless as pure light.
this was sort of sad and a little young. i felt like the writer hadn't had much experience outside of the relationship she refers to, which seemed to be a painful one. i don't know if my frustration with her had to do with my own reflections and regret about taking myself too seriously. maybe that's just what poets do and they can't help it.