Oracles: A Pilgrimage

Catherynne M. Valente

There is a new generation of rising young literary stars who have embraced a classical approach to writing. Catherynne M. Valente is one of those at the forefront. A select few are aware of her gorgeous, fantastic novels; far fewer have discovered her wonderful poetry. This is a shame, and I will here do what I can to remedy the situation.

While Valente's prose style can, perhaps, best be called Corinthian, her poetry is an oddly stripped-down animal; going from a novel to a poem in Valente's world is like trading a Rolls with all the bells and whistles for a souped-up '68 Shelby. The ride may be a little bumpier, but you're still getting to your destination in unheard-of style:

"Instinctively, she'll know to pull out the liver, fat as a brown-bellied river eel, and press her fingertip into the pink blemish staining the regiones dirae like a mud-trapped starfish." (--"The Oracle at Amarillo")

Subtle, spicy, painted in some color that would only look right on a muscle car, but when it passes beneath the trees, whole new chromatic worlds open up.

The book does flag a time or two (well, okay, only once), trading in Valente's fantastic mastery of image for a message poem that sacrifices image for sociopolitical screed that, like almost all sociopolitical screed masquerading as poetry, goes nowhere, but in a book of this quality, one slip is easily forgiven; it's certainly not a reason not to go seeking this out and picking it up at your earliest convenience.