Page after page, Bobcat Country stirs both the counter-intuitively
satisfying “Should I be reading this?” queasiness of the Confessional
poetry of Berryman, Sexton, and Snodgrass, and the unsettlingly
provocative “Is this really poetry?” queasiness of such Muumuu
House-affiliated poets as Ellen Kennedy.
In her second collection, Bobcat Country, Brandi Homan pulls a
surprising bit of bait and switch. She calls the things contained
therein “poems,” but really, they are some of the funniest, saddest,
most honest and raw pieces of autobiographical prose to come along in
some time. But it seems like Homan couldn’t care less about whether
someone who self-identifies as a “poet” has to write things that are
easily identifiable as “poetry” at all.
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