At first, the range of different voices and styles that Connolly takes on from poem to poem in “Revolver” dazzles and charms … and then it starts to exhaust the reader just a little bit. You just want him to settle down and really work any of those voices. They’re all good – all of them underpinned with a crisp, sardonic tone – but they start to verge on cacophonous. And then, by the fifth section or zone of the book (which does not, of course, correspond to the cheeky table of contents), it feels like Connolly hits a flat, smooth straightaway, right to the heart of the matter and the heart of the reader, culminating in the direct and disarming “Plenty.”

“Given the words in advance, it
might all be easier. Interpretation –
that’s where the problems start.
Take counterpane, for an example.
Sounds like a magician’s con,
a glass counter you’d bounce coins
off, but really it means something
comforting – a blanket to keep you warm.”

C.D. Wright movingly juxtaposes the personal and the political, in a voice that is sharp, precise, lively, articulate and immensely caring. She obsesses about body counts in Iraq and at home in the U.S. She follows enumerations of depersonalized numbers with very personalized worries for the safety and wellbeing of beloved sons in particular. She is deeply aware of how we all must account for ourselves, as countries, citizens, family members, partners and individuals.

Reading Dean Young’s poetry is a rush – sugar, adrenaline, pick your intoxicant. With an energetic presenter (is Young a good reader of his own work, I wonder?) the dazzling wordplay and startling juxtapositions of the dramatic and the mundane would be stunning to listen to. Somehow, though, just like a sugar or adrenaline rush, when it’s over, you’re left drained and a bit bewildered, retaining little or nothing. I’m not sure why Young’s words don’t stick, but at the same time I know I’ll be happy to revisit them.

I do love this, from the poem “Self Search”:

Self, I’m stuck with you
but the notion of becoming unglued is too much
and brings tears that come, of course,
because you’re such a schmuck. Some days
you crash about raving how ignored you are
then why the hell don’t people let you alone
but I’ve seen you too perform small
nobilities, selfless generosities.
One way or the other, we’ll part I’m sure
and you’ll take me with you?

This attentively crafted collection of poetry straddles a fine line between self-awareness and self-absorption, but more than once tips into navel gazing that excludes or repels rather than welcomes the reader. This recent winner of the Canadian portion of the 2009 Griffin Poetry Prize is forgiven its ponderous lapses, however, when it redeems itself with the wry humour and crisp observations of poems such as “Busman’s Honeymoon”. Who can’t help but feel included in the universal experience of waiting for, being frustratingly passed by and joining in the communal experience of riding a bus?

“it streaks through storm, now flashing Not In Service
from its radiant forehead, polluted and obscured
by splattered mud, till it can reach its station

and help to ease the overflow of us
waiting in anger. Then we all barge in
and improbably improve the poetry of the bus.”

This is warm, down-to-earth, approachable poetry. The voice is plain-spoken, at times wistful, at times feisty, always charming. Thanks to Leslie Greentree for making us love the supposedly non-beautiful sister so much more.

Jeramy Dodds layers striking and unlikely images and breathtaking wordplay to concoct the refreshingly quirky poems of “Crabwise to the Hounds”. Many poems culminate in wistful, moving conclusions. Those inspired by Glenn Gould are especially intriguing.

“… and in that moment you flapped from me I could picture a thousand words I wanted to say to make you stay.”

“Pull yourself together, because our Emissaries have come / down the aluminum rungs we sawed / half through, and they’re standing, / wearing I’m With Stupid T-shirts beside you.”