Kirjahaku

Wrested from the coppery, keen claws of existential extremity, Blessings and Inclemencies, Constance Merritt's second collection of poems, is conventional in its forms and radical in its reaching back to the ground of being and to the originality and immediacy of our first encounters with language. Forgoing the common hedge of irony, these poems, without apology, place their bets on elemental language, intentional grace, and tradition in all its fruitfulness and freight. By turns passionate and distant, these poems manage at once to ensnare and elude us, and in their urgent quest for clarity seldom fail to compel us.

Relying most heavily on music and metaphor, syntax and diction, Two Rooms explores the conflicting claims of life and art, world and word, cultural heritage and cultural affinities, through the sacral, erotic, and creative imagination. By the light of these dark lyrics, Constance Merritt searches for a path, a sign, a respite -- perhaps love or death or God or insight, perhaps radical transformation or a simple good night's sleep. In these poems, by turns passionate, sinuous, playful and grave, a deep and abiding trust in ""the plain sense of things"" and intractable longing for the ""lush, desire-transfigured world"" meet and wrestle to a dynamic draw

*Finalist for Lambda Literary Award These poems are brilliant and dangerous. The opening poem, "Invisible Woman, Dancing," is the best protest poem of the decade. The speaker attends a party full of casual, good-intentioned racists and ableists. The ending of the poem is explosive. Constance Merritt shows incredible range - erotic poems to a wayward lover; blues lyrics so rhythmic I can nearly hear the guitar; and devotional poems that offer "this, you know, is love, is all, the end." Blind Girl Grunt is a major work by a major poet.-Jillian Weise Merritt's latest collection is a back in bend-bend in love, bend in prayer, and bend in anger. A Blues infiltrates these lines and stanzas, ready to sing and stay (as any devoted lover) through the long haul. And the haul here is a woman, her myriad contents, in medias res.-CM Burroughs Beyond their shared-and dazzling-immunity to taboos, the poems in Constance Merritt's fourth book are very different from each other. Different in form, from stern villanelles to get-drunk-on-them blues poems to wandering narratives. And they are different in their tones, with ruthless self-awareness next to sexy lullaby next to persuasive rage at being "unmoored and vanishing" beyond "the flag of whiteness." Even within single poems, tone is protean. "The Less Than Greater Than Blues" is goofily playful and also as blunt as blunt gets about the roots of the suffering we cause each other. The penultimate poem "Advent" shifts between a longing that intends to wreck and a longing that intends to redeem. In fact the book as a whole shifts between these longings. As do we. Merritt implicates us gently but without hesitation, wrapping us into the "brilliant skin, the ruinous eyes, / the body poised in transit" that opens the collection and that judges and blesses, throughout it. Blind Girl Grunt is supple, and rigorous, and so surprising. It is vital.-Taije Silverman

"Constance Merritt is a poet to defeat categories, to oppose 'the tyranny of names' with a poetry that sets its own terms of encounter, its 'protocols of touch'--tender and austere, formal and intimate at once. Hers is a voice with many musics, sufficiently rich, nuanced and various to express, maintain poise and wrest meaning from the powerful cross-currents in which the heart is torn. I have seldom seen intelligence equal to such a scorching degree of intensity, or mastery of form so equal to passion's contradictory occasions. Merritt's prosodic range is prodigious--she moves in poetic forms as naturally as a body moves in its skin, even as her lines ring with the cadenced authority of a gifted and schooled ear. Here, in her words, the iambic ground bass is in its vital questioning mode: "The heart's insistent undersong: how live?/how live? How live?" this poetry serves no lesser necesssity than to ask that."--Eleanor WilnerBetween us, how we wrestle over words Strain to wring some blessing from the silence, Deliverance from violence, its fear, its lure, The tyranny of names: night day, Sable and alabaster, flint shale, Steel and lace. Who among us can afford To speak the language--any language--rightly? As if it weren't enough to bear one heart Eternally divided in its chambers? We stand close enough to touch. We do Not touch. Between us burns a sword of fire, A rusted turnstile glinting in the sun.