High Lonesome is a radio left on in a candlelit room, playing softly into the shadows as the hours fall through the evening. Interruptions of static, a slow confetti of grief drifting into the corners, mysterious white noise dispatches. Here is a meditation on estrangement--from an other, from the world, from the self--and its long aftermath spent learning how to cultivate tenderness and devotion in a world "where nobody / is tender enough," a practice that alternates between sorrow and transcendence. These poems are little ceremonies of attention to a variety of lonelinesses, both human and non-human. Strange, lyrical and funny, the third collection of poems by Allison Titus simultaneously reckons with and marvels at "the luminously borrowed / experiment that living is" in a world that feels terrible and hopeful, beautiful and precarious.
High Lonesome is a radio left on in a candlelit room, playing softly into the shadows as the hours fall through the evening. Interruptions of static, a slow confetti of grief drifting into the corners, mysterious white noise dispatches. Here is a meditation on estrangement--from an other, from the world, from the self--and its long aftermath spent learning how to cultivate tenderness and devotion in a world "where nobody / is tender enough," a practice that alternates between sorrow and transcendence. These poems are little ceremonies of attention to a variety of lonelinesses, both human and non-human. Strange, lyrical and funny, the third collection of poems by Allison Titus simultaneously reckons with and marvels at "the luminously borrowed / experiment that living is" in a world that feels terrible and hopeful, beautiful and precarious.
