Available here from Small Press Distribution.
Praise for [ the door ]:
Open [ THE DOOR ] to stanzas of dream and enchantment, to chambers of magnetic fields, to the mezzanine of spellbinding diction, to the balcony of this passion play. And 'how do I wish / to approach autobiography?' asks the poem quietly, thunderously. Like the journal in time and the Märchen, like Klee's Angelus Novus, [ THE DOOR ] melds archaic time with contemporary measure, blending with delicate accomplished lines 'the goddess of cereals,' 'the fate of the hive,' and 'the Keystone pipeline.' Open [ THE DOOR ] anywhere and swoon!
Jenny Drai's [ THE DOOR ], like a medieval tapestry, is vivid with color, suggests scene and story, and yet—with the tensile elasticity of textile—warps and shifts the reader's attention in startling ways. As Drai writes, 'again, again, I discover a new route.' This book weaves word and idea, transforming the fabric of language into the skin of the poem. This is no mere poetry collection; [ THE DOOR ] commands our full humanity—domestic, transcendent, witty, insistent:
'really it's about learning to live with one's feet on the ground : while beating one's bright wings / to keep the room warm'
Flashing with intelligence and urgency, [ THE DOOR ] opens to glimpses of bees' exoskeleton frailty, the frailty of our interlaced psychological/social narratives, our own frailties, and what can be broken and remade in the 'arterial life' of experience. Buzzing with unexpected turns and junctures, Drai's athletically agile language excavates fissures in our intricate collective hive, a 'bed of uncertainty and universe' where new openings are threaded. Readers are immersed in layers and layers of iridescence and injury, governing texts, recoded fairytale, etymologies, and fleet lucid perceptions that form our fabled wing- soft beings. Identity and history are convincingly unstill in this transfixing collection.
—Endi Bogue Hartigan