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A review by brice_mo
Sturge Town: Poems by Kwame Dawes
2.0
Thanks to NetGalley and W.W. Norton for the ARC!
Kwame Dawes’s Sturge Town is a collection of sturdy but sparse poems that feels hampered by its length.
Poetry is subjective, so take these critiques with a fistful of salt.
I think good poems feel like watching a skilled dancer—the years of rehearsal are so effective that they are never felt. Every gesture feels birthed in the moment it appears, and the beauty and mystery of the art is the feeling that it could never be witnessed again.
Sturge Town doesn’t feel that way to me.
Although these poems are very competently written, they feel mechanically self-conscious, like seeing a dancer silently keep time or strain to hit their mark. Much of this seems rooted in the book’s length, which causes the specific dimensions of each poem to gradually lose their shape. It’s a shame because Dawes has clearly put so much intention and care into these pieces—it’s just that his voice becomes indistinct in such an expansive volume.
Ultimately, I found myself wanting to see the poet take more risks. His writing feels very traditional—one might say archaic—and, for me, it curbs any potential momentum. Kwame Dawes displays a surgical steadiness, but the excitement of poetry is that sometimes it’s okay to let your hand slip.
Kwame Dawes’s Sturge Town is a collection of sturdy but sparse poems that feels hampered by its length.
Poetry is subjective, so take these critiques with a fistful of salt.
I think good poems feel like watching a skilled dancer—the years of rehearsal are so effective that they are never felt. Every gesture feels birthed in the moment it appears, and the beauty and mystery of the art is the feeling that it could never be witnessed again.
Sturge Town doesn’t feel that way to me.
Although these poems are very competently written, they feel mechanically self-conscious, like seeing a dancer silently keep time or strain to hit their mark. Much of this seems rooted in the book’s length, which causes the specific dimensions of each poem to gradually lose their shape. It’s a shame because Dawes has clearly put so much intention and care into these pieces—it’s just that his voice becomes indistinct in such an expansive volume.
Ultimately, I found myself wanting to see the poet take more risks. His writing feels very traditional—one might say archaic—and, for me, it curbs any potential momentum. Kwame Dawes displays a surgical steadiness, but the excitement of poetry is that sometimes it’s okay to let your hand slip.