Julie Carr

Objects from a Borrowed Confession by Julie Carr

Objects from a Borrowed Confession by Julie Carr

The intimacy of reading a book can be likened to the experience of a confessional, be it in a church, at the bar with friends, or in bed with a lover. The telling is directed, often hushed, shared in implied confidence. The act of confessing creates a feeling of being chosen. And in essence, it is. In the moment you are reading them, the words in a book create this same sense—though hundreds, thousands, millions of people may be reading it, or have read it, or will read it. With reading, however, it is you who have done the choosing, of whose confession to receive.

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Think Tank by Julie Carr

Think Tank by Julie Carr

“What black butterfly, voiceless with its fourth-person narration / is the real world?” Julie Carr’s poem asks, in Think Tank, just out by Solid Objects. This is poetry of the temporal, witnessed through the spatiality offered by the window of the quotidian and domestic (“… Morning’s not / measured nor meant / just assured and rude in its lack of regard …” (10)), of parenthood and chairs, and “all, all” (“Windows blaze, all, all—the train jumps its tracks” (1)). Carr brings “all, all” by way of fragmentation, because there is no other way, and she knows this; poetry is this. As Phillipe Lacoue-Labarthe writes, “Poetry occurs where language, contrary to all expectations, gives way.” By way of amazing observation and diction of capture and release, along with her use of the empty space of the page, Carr’s poems, allow for what Jean-Luc Nancy calls the “syncope of language.” Caesurae reign supreme—at least as supreme as her words.

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