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Postcolonial Love Poem

Poems

Audiobook
1 of 1 copy available
1 of 1 copy available

Winner of the 2021 Pulitzer Prize in Poetry
Finalist for the 2020 National Book Award for Poetry
Finalist for the 2020 Los Angeles Times Book Prize for Poetry
Finalist for the 2020 Forward Prize for Best Collection

Postcolonial Love Poem, the brilliant second collection from Natalie Diaz, holds in its pages the urgent appeal for all bodies―bodies of lovers, family, enemies, as well as of language and rivers and land―to be held dearly. In her lyrical landscape, Diaz tenderly prods the wounds inflicted by America onto its Indigenous peoples. When she states “Let me call my anxiety, desire, then. / Let me call it, a garden,” Diaz allows for the sensation of pleasure to be found in pain; in asserting the autonomy found within desire, the poet simultaneously enables the bodies of Indigenous, Latinx, black, and brown women to be both political and euphoric; and by forcing language to its limits, place is imbued with joy and grief, sensuality and destruction.

In this collection, Natalie Diaz opens up and confronts the conditions from which she writes, embracing bodies like hers and those she loves which have been diminished and erased. As Postcolonial Love Poem offers a picture of an America built on hope and the agency of our future choices, it is love Natalie Diaz offers most tenderly in her hands.

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    • Publisher's Weekly

      Starred review from December 16, 2019
      In this exquisite, electrifying collection, Diaz (When My Brother Was an Aztec) studies the body through desire and the preservation of Native American lives and cultures, suggesting that to exist as a Native in a world with a history of colonization and genocide is itself a form of protest and celebration. She explores this idea in “The First Water Is the Body,” cataloguing the destruction of this invaluable resource by those who seek to protect it: “in the U.S., we are tear-gassing and rubber-bulleting and kenneling natives trying to protect their water from pollution and contamination at Standing Rock.” But it’s desire, both in its erotic form and as present in the will to assimilate, that drives the book: “Like any desert, I learn myself by what’s desired of me—/ and I am demoned by those desires.” “These Hands, If Not Gods” opens with a stunning lyrical address to a lover: “Haven’t they moved like rivers—/ like glory, like light—/ over the seven days of your body?” The elegiac “Grief Work” closes the book with a meditation on longing: “my melancholy is hoofed./ I, the terrible beautiful// Lampon, a shining devour-horse tethered at the bronze manger of her collarbones.” Diaz continues to demonstrate her masterful use of language while reinventing narratives about desire.

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  • English

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