Here's the link to a Jacqueline Corcoran poem:
"This Leaning Sunflower"
She doesn't use language to leap on your back and stab you with rusty serrated statements or pour a bucket of hopeless gooey tar on your head. Instead, Corcoran uses language to transform experience and phenomena into the open spaces of memory and tomorrow. Both of those spaces are mysterious ones. I like poems that create an aura of recall and expectation, not of airless commentary. Poems that are tremulous and waiting, not obnoxious with knowing.
Image is sufficient to ground a fact of being. We don't need to be told facts of being. Speechy poems are dreadful things. I'm glad Corcoran writes with the subtlety of suggestion, with understatement. Her poems don't give me headaches.
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