The Persistence of Longing

I love these poems, love how they sweep me along, sweep me up into the arms of the kind of longing that seems unsayable, untranslatable, impossible to describe in any language, with any words-the words turning back into breath, as this poet says, as she creates the sense of that longing, itself, in words, in these sometimes-breathless lines, sometimes against the restraint of form, the sweet ache of rhyme, creating that sense of urgency that's so like desire, itself, and the sense of danger that infuses even the deepest pleasure, especially the deepest pleasure. I've never read poems that seem to me more accurate about love and desire and sexual relationships and their almost-inevitable shattering-darkly gorgeous and expertly-crafted poems, with a white-hot lyric intensity and a narrative pull that becomes cumulative, an erotic veering toward doom. And yet, the persistence of longing is the life force, too, refusing to exhaust itself: How could anything in the universe be undying / when everything rushed forward, trailing light? Cecilia Woloch, author of Carpathia