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Canopy: Poems

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A long-awaited yet startlingly urgent new collection from “a contemporary master”—a fierce, big-hearted eye on our last, tumultuous decade, and our fragile environment Los Angeles Review of Books Linda Gregerson’s long- awaited new collection is a tour de force, a compendium of lives touched by the radical fragility of the planet and, ultimately, the endless astonishment and paradox of being human within the larger ecosystem, “in a world where every breath I take is luck.” From the Syrian refugee and ecological crises, to police brutality and COVID, to the Global Seed Vault buried under permafrost, the poems ask: How does consciousness relate to the individual body, the individual to the communal, the community to our environment? How do we mourn a loved one, and how do we mourn strangers? The magnificent poems in Canopy catalogue and reckon with humanity and the natural world, mortality, rage, love, grief, and survival. Read more


Publisher ‏ : ‎ Ecco (March 22, 2022)


Language ‏ : ‎ English


Paperback ‏ : ‎ 96 pages


ISBN-10 ‏ : ‎ 0358622255


ISBN-13 ‏ : ‎ 53


Item Weight ‏ : ‎ 4 ounces


Dimensions ‏ : ‎ 5.9 x 0.4 x 8.9 inches


Best Sellers Rank: #795,990 in Books (See Top 100 in Books) #414 in Family Poetry (Books) #503 in Nature Poetry (Books) #749 in Death, Grief & Loss Poetry (Books)


#414 in Family Poetry (Books):


#503 in Nature Poetry (Books):


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Top Amazon Reviews

    • A master at work
This is Linda Gregerson’s seventh collection of poetry, following Prodigal, her volume of new and selected poems published in 2015, and it is masterful. Although there is nothing faddish—or even experimental—about Gregerson’s poems, this is a book very much of its time, what some have called “the end of history,” a time of environmental and political chaos. Gregerson was born in 1950 and "Canop"y is also a book very much aware of the coming end of Gregerson’s own personal history. In the book’s first poem,”Deciduous,” nature itself—in this case, the maple trees—are asked “to call us back to order before//we altogether lose our way” because “the child who learned perspective” from the trees is “counting the years to extinction now.” What we need to know are “the disciplines of do-less-harm.” But first, the maples suggest, humankind has to choose to do that: “De + cidere,” the maples say, “also means decide.” Just as the maples are asked to tell us the truth, not just what we want to hear, so does this poet, in poem after poem, ask us to face reality. In that way, Gregerson seems very Midwestern; she isn’t going to coddle you. Several poems address the modern crisis of immigration: “So many children, so little space in our rubble-strewn / hearts.” We “didn’t mean to fail” these children, just like we didn’t mean to fail those we left behind in Afghanistan, or the young soldiers we sent there, but fail we did. Yet Gregerson isn’t putting the blame on others; it’s always “us,” not “you” who fail again and again. There’s always that moment just before the terrible, irrevocable thing happens, Gregerson suggests, the “moment when nothing is ever the same again,” but it is our very human failing not to know that, to think someone else will know it, will fix it, will stop it. What makes these poems so moving is that most often Gregerson brings these ideas back to the personal. Towards the end of “The Long Run,” in which she has been elucidating these failures, she remembers her late father and how much he loved the ginkgo trees planted on the statehouse lawn in Michigan, the old Greek Revival statehouse (an image which inevitably reminds this reader of all the crazy upheaval the Michigan statehouse has seen in the Trump era). She suggests he loved them because they were so indestructible: they co-existed with dinosaurs and one in Hiroshima even survived the atom bomb. But immediately following that image, Gregerson undercuts it by bringing the poem back to the personal and to her own personal failings: “It must / have been unforgivable, the thing I said that made him cut // their visit short. Forgetting hasn’t fixed it.” To be human is to fail, in Gregerson’s universe, but it is nevertheless to keep trying. That is our only redemption, she implies, a measure of our humanity. In a poem which meditates on our pandemic, she writes, “When I tried // to sign up for the / listserv I was shuttled to another screen / and asked to ‘confirm / humanity.’ I checked the box.” There’s a rueful humour there, too, I think. This is a very rewarding book. The poet Gregerson reminds me of most is Elizabeth Bishop, in that, as in Bishop, much of the pleasure of reading her is seeing a mind at work. First this, then this, then that, one thing suggesting another in poems that are driven by syntax. She isn’t as immediately clear as, say, Billy Collins or Mary Oliver, but she isn’t “difficult” either. These poems are very much worth reading and rereading. I want to thank Ecco and Net Galley for providing me with an advance copy of "Canopy." ... show more
Reviewed in the United States on March 24, 2022 by Susan Wood
    • Work on your line breaks
If I were an esteemed Prophet or poet, with a demeaning ego, I would say, everyone is welcome into my class, The Kingdom of Heaven, except for, well, afterwards, except for you, without any legitimate explanation. Work on your line breaks. Trigger warning.
Reviewed in the United States on August 14, 2022 by David Who Knows The Way Of Jesus

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