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paper \u2022 76 pages \u2022 16.95
\nISBN-13: 978-1-945588-70-9
\nPub Date: February 15, 2021<\/p>\n
Add to Cart<\/a><\/p>\n [\/column] \u201cSome men find nothing, and others \/ find omens everywhere,\u201d writes C. Dale Young in Prometeo<\/em>, a collection whose speaker is a proverbial \u201cchild of fire.\u201d In poems that thrive off of their distinct voice, the speaker confronts generational and lived trauma and their relationship to his multi-ethnicity. We are presented with the idea of the past\u2019s burial in the body and its constellatory manifestations\u2014both in the speaker and those around him\u2014in disease and pain, but also in strength and a capacity for intimacy with others and nature. Grounded in precise language, Young\u2019s examination of the past and its injuries turns into a celebration of the self. In stark, exuberant relief, the speaker proclaims \u201c\u2026I was splendidly blended, genetically engineered \/ for survival.\u201d Resilient, Young\u2019s poems find beauty in landscape, science, and meditation.<\/p>\n “Pastiche”<\/strong><\/p>\n Deep in the fields, the greenish stalks were twice a pastry and decay. In memory, the cane Too young to wield a machete, far too young, The yard hands hacked out space to plant the young.
\n[column col=”3\/4″]<\/p>\nPrometeo<\/em><\/h1>\n
C. Dale Young<\/h2>\n
Finalist for the 2021 Best Book Award in Poetry<\/a><\/h5>\n
Reviewed in Publishers Weekly<\/em><\/a><\/h5>\n
Featured in Lambda Literary\u2019s February\u2019s Most Anticipated LGBTQ Books List<\/a><\/h5>\n
Featured in The Millions’ “Must-Read Poetry: February 2021”<\/a><\/h5>\n
Featured in Library Journal<\/em>‘s “Books and Authors To Know: Poetry Titles To Watch 2021”<\/a><\/h5>\n
\n\n\n\n
\nmy height, a forest for one who had not seen
\nthe likes of oaks or birches. Sugar\u2019s vice
\nhung in the air, its sweetness somewhere between<\/p>\n
\nopened its arms allowing a boy to escape.
\nBut memory lies so well, the fields of cane
\nas much a trap as any means of escape.<\/p>\n
\nI vanished down the endless rows of cane,
\nmy mother screaming out for me to stop.<\/p>\n
\nFor them, what safety there among the cane.
\nFor me, it\u2019s where I learned to beg a man to stop.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n