In her new book, "e;Miss Understood"e; Lynette Greenfield stakes out as firmly as ever, the position of poetry in a world where language's registers have been largely mellowed by forces of oppression. Greenfield's poems unfold in settings: her streets, cafes, and cities, yet these poems oppose grand pronouncements and renounce engagement. We see her continual evolution toward memory, but the role of poetry is still both vital and deeply pronounced. These new poems, pitched at a register slightly lower than that of praise, offer a sort of quiet surprise born out of wise and hard-earned skepticism. A poet has "e;only language, only words, images, only the world,"e; she writes "e;Or elsewhere, "e;There is no truth"e;.
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