No home should be without it. A veritable bible for the lyric narrative writer, okay?

I like her voice and the poems were sensuous.

once again - laux is fearless - her poetry bites then opens up to reveal the preservation of the self . . . a fearless poet -

Ahhh...another excellent Laux book (poetry). She's SO my friend on myspace! =D

for the sake of humanity read this book, as it is so very human in its narrative honesty and blushworthy sexiness. this sauciness increases through the book until your left quite hot under the collar. to warm up for the read, make sure you wink at the librarian as he returns your library card. cup the bookstore girl's hand as she slips you your change. there's no reason to be shy, kids. read "The Thief" or 'Kissing" while eating a bowl of hot sloppy noodles.

Laux has somehow managed to capture the attention of my professor while impressing me only with an occasional line. It's not that she's bad; i mean, common, she's a professional poet. It's that she's not pithy or interesting or overt. It's like reading an endearing letter written by your grandmother: the voice is tempered and precise, but a little self-absorbed and myopic. Insofar as she succeeds at what she sets out to do, there can be no doubt. She is an artist at least in that sense. But she

I found Dorianne Laux and her amazing verse through three female friends here on GoodReads. This book, her second, includes some of my favorite Lauxes, such as "Aphasia" and "Graveyard at Hurd's Gulch." Those poems are about the terrors of dementia and the peace of (someone else's) death. But her poems about love and/or sex are equally strong. For example, "This Close" ends with this lethal line:If I loved you, being this close would kill me.

My favorite poems in this book were "Dust", "The Thief," and "Graveyard at Hurd Gulch". I also heard Laux read from more recent collections this past Tuesday evening at the University of Arkansas. I enjoyed the doubled nature of hearing the poet's words in her own voice, if you will. And yet, and yet. Perhaps I'm simply a hardened moralist, but I didn't enjoy her tales of stealing lighters as much as the rest of the crowd apparently did. She said, off-the-cuff, it's just a small thing, who cares...

This is my introduction to Dorianne Laux. Her poems are rich, vibrant, "sweet leeches of desire". Her language has a lot of torque, but sometimes it can't torque me out of myself...which is what I think I want from poetry these days. Maybe this is the limitation of lyric poetry? Who knows. I will read more and more and more.

If you haven't read this you HAVE to. Like almost every poet I love, my friend Liz turned me on to her. She is amazing. Dust is my favorite poem in this book.

Hadn't read this in a dozen or more years (thanks again Boone), and it's hot-damn fantastic. Here's an excerpt from one of my favorites, "After Twelve Days of Rain," which you can hear her read here:Today, pumping gas into my old car, I stoodhatless in the rain and the whole worldwent silent--cars on the wet streetsliding past without sound, the attendant'smouth opening and closing on airas he walked from pump to pump, his footstepserased in the rain--nothingbut the tiny numbers in their square

A hearbreaking and heartwarming book, all at once. Dorianne is one of my favorite poets - she tells the truth like no-one else, like your best friend at a sleepover and then you want her to tell them again. I re-read this book regularly.

It's no accident an Edward Hopper painting graces the cover if What We Carry. Laux writes as Hopper paints, using stark words and lovingly documented images to illuminate the beauty of the mundane, the working class. Each section contains a different point of view, the first, the aging single empty nester, the woman who has lived her life and is now satisfied in the empty quiet. The second melds the mother and daughter, childhood painted from both points of view. The last is the lover, the wife....

No matter what the grief, its weight,we are obliged to carry it.We rise and gather momentum, the dull strengththat pushes us through crowds.And then the young boy gives me directionsso avidly. A woman holds the glass door open,waits patiently for my empty body to pass through.All day this continues, each kindness reaching towards another — a strangersinging to no one as I pass on the path, treesoffering their blossoms, a retarded childwho lifts his almond eyes and smiles.Somehow they always find...

Laux is my favorite contemporary female poet writing today. Her poems in this collection (as well as her other collections) are sensual, striking, and speak to the experiences of being a woman. Each poem is bold and astonishing, fueled by the pure, raw imagery. I often use her poems when teaching creative writing classes, and my students always respond with awe.

Although this collection is almost 25 years old, it doesn't seem dated in the slightest. These are straightforward narrative poems, but all of them are so good. Maybe part of it is that Laux was almost exactly the same age when she wrote these poems as I am now, but they really spoke to me. The book is divided into three sections. The first is poems of the self and what we do when we are alone with no one looking. The second is poems about parents and children. The third is poems about love and

Wonderfully insightful, as are all of Ms. Laux's books are, and an inspiration to poets who appreciate the hard edged beauty of the everyday in poetry. This is the kind of truth tellingthat I love to read in poetry, and something I strive for in my own.

I really like this woman's poetry. You don't have to like poetry to enjoy her work.

Sensual writing with many favorite poems! I love how she accentuates the simple, "stale Sunday" yet gets to the humanistic profound. Lovely writing that moves me into worlds of relationship, love, and the spaces between.

Tender, unflinching attention.Two of my favorites from this collection are Aphasia and Enough Music. Aphasiafor Honeya After the stroke all she could saywas Venezuela, pointing to the pitcherwith its bright blue rim, her one wordcommand. And when she drank the clearwater in and gave the glass back,it was Venezuela again, gratitude,maybe, or the word now simplya sigh, like the sky in the window,the pillows a cloudy definitionpropped beneath her head. Pink rosesdying on the bedside table, each fal...