Between the Crackups (Salt Modern Poets)

by Rebecca Lehmann

Between the Crackups is a frolicking romp through the abandoned factories, overcrowded highways, and forgotten rural landscapes of America. This provocatively voiced book explores themes of sexuality, gender, class, pop-culture, and aesthetics. Some of these poems are sonnets, some are multi-voiced elegies, others are meditations on loss. From the balmy swamps of Florida, to the snowed-in forests of northern Wisconsin, and back again, Rebecca Lehmann captures a feeling of cultural unease and personal panic in tight, smartly worded poems that banter casually with the tropes, traditions, and authors of the Western poetic canon. In the book, the Old English poem “The Dream of the Rood” is re-imagined as a two-part, modern-day fever dream, the classic pastoral landscape morphs into an apple orchard occupied by off-putting children, and the entire season of autumn goes missing. Part serious meditation and part carnival fun house, these poems will make the reader chortle, chuckle, snort, and maybe even blush.

• ISBN10: 1844718581
• ISBN13: 9781844718580
• Publish Date: 15 November 2011
• Publish Status: Active
• Publish Country: GB
• Imprint: Salt Publishing
• Format: Paperback
• Pages: 80
• Language: English
• URL: http://saltpublishing.com/products/between-the-crackups-9781844718580

Reviews

[brokentune]

Don't be put off by the star rating. There is more to this collection of poetry than a star rating can convey. There is more to any collection of poetry than a review, never mind a rating, can possibly try to address.
This collection of poetry had me interested right from the start with its harsh unsympathetic attitude. But attitude towards what? Or whom?

Think Georgia, Gorgeous

We take our bearing from the headlights
flashing through the guardrails, Nashville,
and a billboard reads, Good little tits! No,
that's a joke you make. But we saw one
in Indiana that read Fireworks, Guns, Cigarettes,
Big B-A-N-G! Tennessee's small towns rub
themselves against our little Chevy as we careen
through the Smokies. I grab the wheel when
you ask me to, put down my pencil and stop
following the law. The truth collapses. There's
a mountain that looks like your face. I say
I love you. It's not a lie, although everything else
might be - the salt on the side of the car,
the salt in your blood, the one-armed hitchhiker.

It seemed part of the attraction of this collection was the anger, disregard, illusions of independence and carelessness. However, I quickly found out that most of the poems were utterly inaccessible to me. Not because of the themes. Structurally, too, many of the poems were as elusive as the content. And, yet, a handful of the poems were just gripping.

North Florida Rain

Don't judge me because I don't find anything as beautiful
as the sound of the rain; it's likely I've mistaken
anesthesia for aesthetics. Live oaks split the air around
my house. They don't know the answer: moonshine
or memory, perhaps trying to see each twisting drop amidst
the rapid veil. Years ago a deer ran out from the storm-slick
woods and slammed into the side of my car. The deer's antlers
slid across the windshield. Its hoofs dented lines across
the hood. Its nose was snotty. It snorted. A wad of mucus
lodged against the wipers. The ditch was something final.

Maybe the deer became the rain as it limped away,
the line of blood it left a lightning bolt, or question mark.
Forgive the intrusion of metaphor; I've been away a long time.
I wear a damp wool coat. Please page my father.