From an "uncommonly fluent" and "rewarding" poet (The Observer), a
collection of miniature epics that asks: can grace be found amid
disarray?
The New World, Anthony Carelli's new collection of poems, is an
American travelogue that unfolds in a series of darkly comic episodes,
with allusions to Dante as a thread throughout. In these epics in
miniature, we meet a pilgrim-poet as he awaits the arrival of his child,
a would-be Columbus, on the shores of a land "disenstoried" by explorers
present and past. It's a land and a people largely lost in mindscapes
and mythscapes, haunted by sketchy aspirational visions, misbegotten
misremembering, and emptiness. Nonetheless, the poet steps out to the
shore to sing for the child--and reader--to do what Columbus never did:
"land gently. / And listen and / listen and listen / and stay."
Constantly unsettling the rhetoric of inherited forms, the poet shaping
these poems is always bound to the pilgrim, who cannot pretend to
dissolve our purgatories but can only invite us--as a latter-day Virgil
would--deeper into the uncanny encounters that encircle us. From an
Arizona nursing home and a grandmother's memory of a stolen golden
Schwinn in the occupied Philippines, to a tale of road-tripping west
through Pennsylvania as sunrise transpires in the wrong sky, The New
World opens strange spaces for us to re-see, lament, and re-sing the
stories we tell.