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The Accounts (Phoenix Poets), by Katie Peterson
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The death of a mother alters forever a family’s story of itself. Indeed, it taxes the ability of a family to tell that story at all. The Accounts narrates the struggle to speak with any clear understanding in the wake of that loss. The title poem attempts three explanations of the departure of a life from the earth—a physical account, a psychological account, and a spiritual account. It is embedded in a long narrative sequence that tries to state plainly the facts of the last days of the mother’s life, in a room that formerly housed a television, next to a California backyard. The visual focus of that sequence, a robin’s nest, poised above the family home, sings in a kind of lament, giving its own version of ways we can see the transformation of the dying into the dead. In other poems, called “Arguments,” two voices exchange uncertain truths about subjects as high as heaven and as low as crime. Grief is a problem that cannot be solved by thinking, but that doesn’t stop the mind, which relentlessly carries on, trying in vain to settle its accounts. The death of a well-loved person creates a debt that can never be repaid. It reminds the living of our own psychological debts to each other, and to the dead. In this sense, the death of this particular mother and the transformation of this particular family are evocative of a greater struggle against any changing reality, and the loss of all beautiful and passing forms of order.
- Sales Rank: #1297810 in Books
- Published on: 2013-09-19
- Released on: 2013-09-19
- Original language: English
- Number of items: 1
- Dimensions: 8.50" h x .50" w x 5.50" l, .30 pounds
- Binding: Paperback
- 104 pages
From Publishers Weekly
Stark, smart, funereal, terrifying at times, this second volume from Peterson (This One Tree), one of two volumes of her poems coming out this month, addresses the death of her mother, without confining itself to her, or to any, biography. Instead, careful scenes—cemeteries, domestic interiors, the fields where the dead reside—support Peterson's impossible search for a way to give mortality lasting meaning. That search gets energy, too, from recurrent props, such as a claw-footed table, and from bizarre one-off symbols, such as the 18th-century cat harpsichord which made music by pulling cats' tails. Peterson's is a careful, serious poetry, difficult in the way that real life is difficult, but clear and chilly as a long-held regret, and pared-down in its choice of words, which come close (at times too close) to the wiry sadness and clipped free verse of Louise Gl�ck. Early on, Peterson recalls You carrying me into a lake in August,/ the summer my mother left the earth. Peterson's emotional intelligence lets her understand the limits of sympathy, but it also lets her speak for inanimate objects, in a way that could speak to us all. What I am made of/ whispers, frays, is shed,/returns to the ground again, says a talking nest, in Peterson's longest poem: I contained/ life,/ and it/ flew. (Sept.)
From Booklist
In her third collection, Peterson confronts a mother’s death and earthly loss. With consistent measure and emotional depth, she creates a coherent world in miniature that mirrors the ever-shortening time frame of life. In one especially innovative sequence, alternating lines collapse into stanzas, recreating the finitude of mortality. Throughout the book, objects find fibrous, sinewy forms, things hewn and woven, lashed together like spirit to body. The speaker in “From the Nest” watches a patient struggle to “turn the sounds / the sick mouth makes / into prayer.” But also the shapes of new life rise—clawed feet, extra leaves, trellised limbs that terminate in the small hands of branches. Elsewhere, Peterson turns to the language of backyard gardening and tending nettles. Likewise, those familiar, refulgent faces, “the moon’s / deckle edge” and the red sun, all “rust and blush and sunset, shining.” --Diego B�ez
Review
“Peterson explores with tremendous lyric precision and emotional power not merely the heartbreak of personal tragedy but also the desire to make a beleaguered world new against the pressure of loss. Ovid’s spirit of metamorphosis haunts these poems and asks us to reconsider the redemptive power implicit in an account, how it is made, given, and made again.” (citation for the 2014 UNT Rilke Prize)
“In her third collection, Peterson confronts a mother’s death and earthly loss. With consistent measure and emotional depth, she creates a coherent world in miniature that mirrors the ever-shortening time frame of life. In one especially innovative sequence, alternating lines collapse into stanzas, recreating the finitude of mortality. Throughout the book, objects find fibrous, sinewy forms, things hewn and woven, lashed together like spirit to body. The speaker in ‘From the Nest’ watches a patient struggle to ‘turn the sounds / the sick mouth makes / into prayer.’ But also the shapes of new life rise—clawed feet, extra leaves, trellised limbs that terminate in the small hands of branches. Elsewhere, Peterson turns to the language of backyard gardening and tending nettles. Likewise, those familiar, refulgent faces, ‘the moon’s / deckle edge’ and the red sun, all ‘rust and blush and sunset, shining.’” (Diego B�ez Booklist)
“Stark, smart, funereal, terrifying at times. . . . Peterson’s is a careful, serious poetry, difficult in the way that real life is difficult, but clear and chilly as a long-held regret.” (Publishers Weekly)
"One of the strongest books of elegy in the past decade" (Harvard Review)
“Katie Peterson’s impressive poems belong to the school of omission and inference. ‘I didn’t come here to make speeches,’ she says in her poem ‘Earth,’ yet the poems in The Accounts fill you with wonder at what is not being said so skillfully. ‘Pockets of silence,’ they are called, and they contain precise measurements of feeling and thought. In their quiet complexity, Peterson’s accounts involve and entrap the reader in serious conversation.” (Tony Hoagland)
“The narrator of Katie Peterson’s book The Accounts has strayed into a myth in which no guiding figures remain, and with no way to prove or save herself. Who knew the complexity of grief could be drawn with such shocking simplicity and masterful depth?”
(Mary Kinzie)
“As the title of this brilliant book suggests, Katie Peterson prizes the plural, the multiple, the still to be said. That earth has given her, as it has given each of us, one story, a story that ends, is the source not only of her outrage but also of her patience: sentences that enact the work of thinking and feeling as if never to end. At the center of this labyrinth, a mother’s death, a daughter’s grief.�� ‘Do not ask what has been lost,’ says Katie Peterson, ‘ask what changed.’ To read The Accounts is to be changed in turn, to require what the author of these hauntingly intelligent poems will say next.” (James Longenbach)
“Recently, I’ve been inspired by Katie Peterson’s collection of poems, The Accounts. It’s a sober, psychologically delicate work. Peterson endows apparently commonplace observations with immense symbolic resonance and emotional power: it’s an art of strategic understatement.” (Rosanna Warren Poetry Foundation)
"Peterson mindfully documents grief's intricacies from unexpected angles. . . . Peterson's music isn't easy; or rather, it isn't simple. It's rich, well-conceived, and reveals its maker as one of great integrity and intelligence." (West Branch)
Most helpful customer reviews
2 of 2 people found the following review helpful.
a mother dies once, but leaves so many accounts behind
By Molly
The Accounts won the Rilke Prize from the University of North Texas. They talked about Ovid's Metamorphosis haunting the book, which I like, because these are poems that closely observe small but hugely important transformations.
There are so many ways to account for a mother's death, in one's own head, and heart, and family. There's a settling of accounts you have to do to keep going in your own life after a loss.
"Grief is a problem that cannot be solved by thinking, but that doesn’t stop the mind, which relentlessly carries on, trying in vain to settle its accounts," it says, in the blurb that goes with this book. WORD. I can't think of anything more human than that, the war between one's rational attempt to account for and organize experience, and the chaos and tumult of emotion that a catastrophe lets loose upon the world. I like reading books like that.
Also, a lot of these poems have images in them that are very Californian: the trees, Stanford Hospital, the cemetery in Colma. I like reading poems written about places I've been.
1 of 2 people found the following review helpful.
Moving and personal reflections on a mother and one's own life.
By Pat Rice
I liked all the pieces in this book.
The author is an intelligent and gifted observer of life and her own experiences.
She has a very realistic yet significant way of experiencing the world.
0 of 0 people found the following review helpful.
Five Stars
By nance
Wonderful!
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