Could be a worse choice. In the past 24 hours I’ve tried to like her stuff. Not seen everything. Untranslated. In English, American English! Managed to sort of weakly like parts of some. We are ninety degrees apart in lots of dimensions. It isn’t just that I’m male. There are different facets to poetry: imagery, music, humor, story, something that is simply charm, ideas, depth, zest, snark, the flash of opposites. Her content either doesn’t have much of these for me or we are very much out of resonance. She has a low level of most of them, but her music is dilute and what she substitutes for that mysterious thing called “sell” hardly moves the needle for me. Maybe it is because I’m male, since I spent a lot of time with a really good woman who wrote like her. I do respect that sparky umlaut. She’s okay; there have been better. I want fireworks or subsonics now and then. Scope. Not present. Or scope I can’t trust.
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