You’ve read not merely because of the unknown that was stalking toward them and have been wandering around in a daze for a year and a half, pining for new work by Jenny Boully, unable to think of anything else.
Well, you can dry your tears. Start eating again. Let your kid out of the cellar.
Coconut Books brings you of the mismatched teacups, of the single-serving spoon: a book of failures
And don’t let the subtitle fool you. It’s like when the new batch is called “Certain Death.” It just means “you need to shoot this into your veins ASAP.”
But don’t take our word for it. Listen to these fiends:
“I’ve never come across a book with the conceit of Boully’s latest, which explicitly presents ‘poetic failures,’—’embarrassments, short-comings, and all’—written over the course of many years, mostly in thrall to the existential condition she aptly terms ‘pining.’ Her conclusion, which comes after waves of diverse poetic experiments have crashed and receded, is that ‘nothing written will bring love.’ It is a wise and unusual finding in a book filled with delicacy and resilience.”
“The speaker in these poems has been listening to our thoughts for years and transforming them into this book, which chronicles failures and their manifestations—the shiny things, the ephemera of what could have been. Jenny Boully is one of my favorite writers because of how much care she takes with language and with truth. This stunning collection highlights her incredible range as a poet. It is a breathtaking addition to her body of work.”
—Carmen Giménez Smith
“The imagery of Jenny Boully’s of the mismatched teacups, of the single-serving spoon lurks somewhere in the filmic senses among Buñuel and Brakhage, mashing the natural and the metaphysical and the dreamed-of and the remembered-without-why. ‘Night is urgent,’ she writes amidst a text packed tight with bodies waiting among messed up road maps, waiting to be found, touched, loved. Later: ‘I like to blame all of this on the time of year.’ When the nausea meds and mushrooms and beers are not enough, these poems are nice and bright like knives, some shells to fit over your face and breathe with.”