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Lori
Desrosiers is the author of The
Philosopher’s Daughter, published
by Salmon Poetry in 2013 and a chapbook, Inner
Sky from
Glass Lyre Press. Sometimes
I Hear the Clock Speak is
her second full-length collection. Her
poems have appeared in New
Millennium Review,
Contemporary
American Voices,
Best
Indie Lit New England, String Poet, Blue Fifth Review, Pirene's
Fountain, The New Verse News, The
Mom Egg,
The
Bloomsbury Anthology of Contemporary Jewish-American Poetry
and many other journals and anthologies. Her work has been nominated
for a Pushcart Prize. She edits Naugatuck
River Review,
a journal of narrative poetry and WORDPEACE, an online journal
dedicated to peace and justice. She teaches Literature and
Composition at Westfield State University and Holyoke Community
College, and Poetry in the Interdisciplinary Studies program for the
Lesley University M.F.A. graduate program.
Blurbs
Lori
Desrosiers’ Sometimes
I Hear the Clock Speak enfolds
in an origami of memory the poet’s life and the lives of her family
and others. As
with any fine poetry, the poems mostly transcend clock-time, soaring
to a Blakean cleansing of the “doors of perception.” In
vignettes alchemized from everyday experiences, the poet gives us an
“eternity in an hour” of music-laced memoir. Here
is an immersion in the dance of a woman who shakes off the shackles
of domestic oppression; here is a gentle dreamer who embraces the
liberation of being a daring writer.
--Susan
Deer Cloud, Author of Hunger Moon
Opening
this new book by Lori Desrosiers you will find of
memory and search, of second-thoughts and playful indecisions, poems
that go back in time to retrieve music and mend heart.
Indeed,
the reader will find all kinds of music here: there is a violin that
lacks music and there is a brother's voice that speaks like
father's--but not when he sings. There is a reveille at 7.15am, and
there is a young baby whose voice is known by her singing. And it is
music that brings half-deaf father back from the dead. Page after
page the reader will come to learn that it is memory--that beautiful,
final chord, which reveals us to ourselves, and yet is unwritten by
us.
--- Ilya Kaminsky
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--- Ilya Kaminsky
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