![]() The words, the lines, the poems, both resolve and “bloome,” opening into magnificence even as the guiding imagination refuses to pause. Here, and in so many of the book’s best sections, Charles feels remarkably sincere and vulnerable. It helps to know, as the poem rushes into the terribly plain, small, slowly expanding sentences that make up its last two lines, that Charles’ estrogen is made from “the urin concentrat off pregnynt mares.” But there is also an immediacy there, underneath or inside or maybe right there in the visible mediation of the spelling, that lets the lines live prior to that explanatory knowledge. the sadened pwres wee rub / so economicalie ![]() ![]() ![]() Sweters / i wont / inn the feedynge marte / Part of the answer must be that it offers a surprising way of being queer, of allowing Charles, a trans woman, to stand at an odd angle to a dominant culture in which “not a monthe goes bye / a tran i kno doesnt dye.” But it matters at least as much that the strangeness of her style so often resolves into something clear and alert. It’s worth asking, as I’ve been asking myself for months, why Jos Charles’ feeld- a book-length sequence of poems about contemporary life written in a kind of faux Middle English - doesn’t feel gimmicky. ![]()
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