Dead Horse
Niina Pollari
These poems are so rhythmic you can almost ride them. Moving through the daily deaths of the earth, the questions of what to hold together and what to let, Niina Pollari writes from a place where emotion meets bone, exploring what it means to be a blood container. You will see your own skull.
Melissa Broder
What People Are Saying
Joyelle McSweeney
Niina Pollari's poems unfold with a phrasal clarity I didn't know I needed, and which disturbs me: "like an animal/enjoying the warm sunshine with blood in my mouth." Her poems deploy the vatic informality of Tytti Heikkinen or Hiromi Ito, indubitably of the present yet of a material insoluable to the present, a voice that issues from a Grecian urn or can of Coors. This is resolved, odd, clear-complicated stuff, lovely "like a fakey arcade."
Inside the Book
- Category:
- Poetry
- Binding:
- 83 pp Perfect Bound
- Dimensions
- 8.8" x 5.9"
- Publication Date:
- February 2015
- ISBN:
- 9780991429813
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Reviews
- Publisher's Weekly
- Jordan Scott
From the Book
Dear Suitor
When arriving in their SmartCar
To where I was sitting on my divan
Did you think I would be a human being
Did you think it was a girl I would be
A girl to sweetly
Take your dark headphones to crowd you
As you're listening to your dark music
To soothe your dark self
You are like an accordion
Full of borrowed air
Puffed up
Fake big
Where I am a dark stone with a reservoir
Containing blood that no hand will ever reach
And nobody with a daisy in his teeth
Will floss his way into me
Of that he can be sure
Repossessing the Zombie
The static washing over
A continuous whinny
I can't, obligation
I was supposed to be
The courthouse, I was supposed
To be the somnambulist
You should
Never startle walking sleepers
On the TV they are saying the heart
is actually more like a pine cone
covered in individual scales, each one
harboring a small brown seed
the way one conceals a fugitive