Buchnummer des Verkäufers
Inhaltsangabe: A soul's journey through the night, a missing woman: time and narrative bend and interlock across a play of poetic forms and voices to make one story of love and loss. In And She Was Corbett combines the fictional spell-making of Haruki Murakami, with the filmic neo-noir of Atom Agoyem (Exotica) and David Lynch (Lost Highway, Mulholland Drive), to push the boundaries of poetic genre, asking us to renegotiate the way we encounter and reconfigure ourselves through trauma, in desire, or as we seek to reassemble ourselves and our past. November, 3am, and two young lovers are about to meet on the Heathrow Express. A side street in an unknown city: Felix Morning wakes with no memory. In his pocket is a membership card for a nightclub, The Bunker. With the help of the beautiful Flick, he must recover what he has lost. Deep into a dangerous love affair, Esther and Iain believe the other can replace what they each have lost - a heart, a gift - but is Esther's price too high for Iain to pay, and can their love survive? Who is Esther, where has she come from, and what has she got to do with the woman in the labyrinth? Does Flick belong to the past or to the future? What is memory, and what remains of us without it? And She Was demands our attention, its startling and dazzling writing asking us to be carried away as we read, but returning us by its end to a place both resolved and transformed.
A romance, a thriller, a myth, Sarah Corbett's new poem will have her readers hurrying through its pages to find out what happens before returning more slowly to the pleasures of her stepped, tilting stanzas and their line-by-line transformations of her characters and their places in the world. 'Step in', she writes, 'and the space unfolds / one box opening into others'. --John Mcauliffe
'Can memory be put in a box?' asks one of the characters in Sarah Corbett's mysterious, condensed and achingly beautiful narrative tale. This lyrical, unsettling, and arresting poem about passion, memory and loss possesses an hallucinatory quality. Corbett creates an extraordinary urban world where a man reaching for his past finds it ever out of reach. The erotic writing captures the complexity of sexual connection and 'the inner silk of memory'. Corbett writes fluid and irresistible poetry, to be read, re-read and savoured. --Patricia Duncker
On Sarah Corbett's previous collection, Other Beasts (Seren, 2008): By this, her third collection, it is clear that Sarah Corbett has gathered around her a compelling set of personal motifs; childhood, animals (horses, in particular), hills, moors and the night. It would be lazy to call her work Gothic, because it doesn't deliberately set out to create unease, but her poems accept the blood-and-guts surrounding life (a single eyeball, a dead hare), and often find solace in the strangeness that night brings. Corbett is adept at the well-placed, acute image; two girls caught by lightning are 'a puzzle in each others' arms' in 'Lightning', rabbits have unnerving, 'bead-berry eyes' in 'Nocturne', and she uses juxtapositions that are often startling and startlingly beautiful. For example, a fox tosses a sheep corpse over its back 'like a crown of blossom' in 'Fox at Midnight', and the 'Mountain Pony' settles 'the bird of its fear' on a concrete floor. There's a density to the diction, caused by strong consonance. Follow the recurrence of f, t and l sounds in these two other examples of beautiful, acute imagery: Hale Bopp is 'a fist of flung glitter' in 'Comet', and in 'Rivers, Roads', '...the city just left' is '...frost on leaf, just that'. The packed repetition of consonants slows the line down, forcing the reader to enunciate clearly and giving the words a deliberated weight, which underscores the evident rhythmic control of the lines. Corbett shares that control with her presiding spirit, Elizabeth Bishop, whose work furnishes several of the poems with epigraphs. This is how I'd scan the end of 'Birthday', the first poem in the book (the italicised syllables being those with the heaviest stress): 'I bark, bark. Other beasts complain back under the weight of dark.' I'm aware there are other scansion possibilities, especially at the start of that last line, but this is how I'd read it. Notice the slip back into iambic rhythm at the end, releasing the narrator into the night through which she runs. Notice also, the dense patterning of those hard consonants, not to mention the use of rhyme. When this occurs, the poem seems a solid, precise thing, shaped by axes and chisels. This is distinctively Corbett; her music. I wonder what Corbett's imagination might do outside the confines of the modern lyric poem. I'm looking forward to the appearance of the verse novel on which she's currently working. I don't find the closed, charged chamber of the confessional poem in Other Beasts, nor a meander through the past's titbits. Instead, I find a series of beautiful, unsettling, lyric moments, and several compelling sequences that look outwards to the contemporary and wider world. --Meryl Pugh
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