In her first book-length collection of poems to appear in the US, Lesley
Harrison looks North to the sea, with the heat of the land at her back,
to bring us meditations on whale hunts and lost children, Manhattan sky
towers, and the sound of the gamelan in the Gulf of Bothnia. A poetry of
spareness in multilayered depths, of textural silence and aural place,
Kitchen Music plunges deep through the strata of language where
"weather is body" and an Iceland poppy is "as delicate as birch." In
poems and sequences of poems, Harrison spins folktales into threads of
family and gender, engages with the work of the artists Roni Horn and
Marina Rees, transcribes John Cage and Johannes Kepler into song and
litany, pens a hymnal of bees, and turns to storms, glaciers, and the
lapwing life in a field of young barley. As the novelist Kirsty Gunn
writes in the foreword, Harrison has "taken up the old white whale of
the fixed and masculine narratives and made of its seas and weathers her
own Moby Dick, a female poetry 'in praises / repeated, repeating.'"