Poetry in America
I admire Julia Kasdorf's poems for their alert eye, attentive mind, vigilant heart, all fused into a single, sometimes painfully aware, vision of the world. Bristling with narrative surfaces, angular emotional interiors, humorous sympathies, her poems move in careful zigzags, like a bat. Her politically astute voice knows, understands, and without sentimentality embraces a universe of ordinary lives and unsung places—celebrating women's work, or her daughter's rapt in-taking of all that is new to her, or the nature of 'Poetry in America,' or the existential texture of Mennonite life, or simply sun flashing on a spider's thread, a blade of grass, / my own tanned skin. Plainspoken, both intimate and discreet, these poems take hold.