Somewhere, in front of my name
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Prosser Stirling's debut poetry collection, Somewhere, in Front of My Name , arrives like a fresh gust in the often staid corridors of contemporary poetry. Eschewing the prosaic in favor of a vibrant tapestry of word painting, sound, and rhythm, Stirling offers a striking array of poetic forms. Whether anchored in a specific locale or floating through abstract metaphor, each piece pulses with a singular, immediate voice. The craftsmanship is impeccable, with magical orchestration and imagery, compelling readers to linger and revisit. This is poetry as it should be: a masterful dance of langua...
Prosser Stirling's debut poetry collection, Somewhere, in Front of My Name , arrives like a fresh gust in the often staid corridors of contemporary poetry. Eschewing the prosaic in favor of a vibrant tapestry of word painting, sound, and rhythm, Stirling offers a striking array of poetic forms. Whether anchored in a specific locale or floating through abstract metaphor, each piece pulses with a singular, immediate voice. The craftsmanship is impeccable, with magical orchestration and imagery, compelling readers to linger and revisit. This is poetry as it should be: a masterful dance of language. Stirling's knack for selecting the precise word or phrase is uncanny. He possesses an eye and an ear for the extraordinary, reminiscent of a seasoned riddle maker. His poems repurpose nouns into verbs, breathing new life into the language. Alliteration is deftly employed like a chef adding just the right amount of spice to elevate a dish. Echoing Billy Collins' wisdom, Stirling knows that a poem concludes when the reader feels it should, ensuring each piece ends where the reader's emotions dictate. First-time readers of Stirling's work should arm themselves with a dictionary and a steaming cup of ginger tea. This collection promises not only enjoyment but also an intellectual challenge. Somewhere, in Front of My Name, charts a course down the passionate river of existence with serene yet wide-open eyes. It guides readers through shifting currents, delving into profound depths. Stirling's words evoke vivid imagery: "Slackened oars break the sound / as my skiff drifts in the silver-plated wake; / between green growing on green, / ghosted cypress stumps, / stone solemn, / absorb the boat wash / to silence my passage." The poet is on an eternal quest for the elusive - the cusp of connection, a memory, an understanding. Something cherished, something lost, something not yet imagined. "I... take shelter under wattled withes, / and bird my way through fell acres to seek you, / still not knowing / your face / or name." Stirling's keen observational skills and auditory sensitivity are evident in his compact, sound-rich lines, brimming with implication. Each poem is a puzzle, inviting readers to pause and let fresh insights emerge. His work marvels at the grand and the minute, the macro and the micro. The cosmic pull between all entities - human to human, human to nature, human to past - is palpable. "Something big watches us / with animacy of an older world. / Is it a god being born / or two souls at eclipse, / about to detonate / from nearness?"
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