Women’s Poetry

Poems and Advice

Fried is a poet who will 'tense up' when she hears 'an affirming poem,' finding 'Sourness a kind of joy I try for intricately.' Her present-tense poems vividly record the impressions of our moment: road rage, smartphones, magnet loops, Facebook, a 'gun megachurch.' In 'Kissinger at the Louvre (Three Drafts),' the background of a cellphone self-portrait captures 'a dark figure' who 'looks familiar,' but 'I look fat in it,' a tourist decides, 'And deletes.' Fried announces she's not the kind of poet to place Kissinger before 'The Raft of the Medusa,' but of course, in making her point, she decorously does just that. 'Midnight Feeding' embodies Fried's ironic resistance to the romantic: taking cat food to a shed, she wears a baby monitor 'like a Miss America sash' and 'nothing / but underpants, flipflops.' The moon is out, but Fried spurns the poetic impulse: 'There are too many / stars in poems you have to get drunk to write.' . . . This is a commanding book, and its first and last poems especially stand out: 'Torment,' a biting narrative about narcissistic students, and 'Ask The Poetess,' a hilarious parody of advice columns and the poetry business.
The New York Times

Daisy Fried’s third book of poetry is a book of unsettling, unsettled Americans. Fried finds her Americans everywhere, watching Henry Kissinger leave the Louvre, trapped on a Tiber bridge by a crowd of neo-fascist thugs, yearning outside a car detailing garage for a car lit underneath by neon lavender, riding the train with Princeton seniors who have been rejected by recession-bound Wall Street, feeding stray cats drunk at midnight, bitching at her mother in the labor room, shopping with wide-bodied hunters for deer-dismembering band saws in the world’s largest supplier of seasonal camouflage, cursing her cell phone and husband at eighty-five miles an hour, hiding behind the mask of an advice column to proclaim Charles Bukowski “America’s greatest poetess.” There is nothing like this book, because there is nothing in it but America. No comfort, no consolation, no life-affirming pats on the back, no despair about God, no fear or acceptance of death, no irrational exuberance, no guilt or weariness, no misery even in the middle of personal and political crisis. Plenty of humor and plenty of seriousness. Joy. And a new kind of poetry: not nice, but rich and real.

88 Pages, 6 x 9 in.

March, 2013

isbn : 9780822962380

about the author

Daisy Fried

Daisy Fried is the author of My Brother Is Getting Arrested Again, a finalist for the National Book Critics Circle Award, and She Didn’t Mean to Do It, winner of the Agnes Lynch Starrett Poetry Prize. She has received Guggenheim, Hodder, and Pew Fellowships, a Pushcart Prize, and the Cohen Award from Ploughshares. Fried reviews poetry books for the New York Times, Poetry, and the Threepenny Review and was awarded Poetry magazine’s Editor’s Prize. She has taught creative writing at Bryn Mawr College and in Warren Wilson College’s low-residency MFA program. Fried lives in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania.

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Daisy Fried