A new American psalter of fatherhood, spirituality, temporality, and natural wonder from the debut poet Lamb.
Are we happy in eternity? I ask.
You answer, Are we happy now?
Wrong Psalms is the debut collection of poems by Lamb.
With the mythological reverberations of H.D and soft tenacity of Raymond Carver, the poet weighs his duties: to self, to family, to vast entities and structures both earthly and beyond. But his visionary translation of the world relays that perhaps the world cannot be measured at all.
For he does not reconcile the fissures between flesh and soil, the living and departed, the existence of capital in a society ostensibly devised by intangible human spirit. He magnifies these theatric disparities. Walks astride them across the American West under suburbia’s dusk and forest’s dawn. Imbues them with a sweet humor or, at times, a darker melancholia. The poetic pilgrimage of a young father emerges, who renders his accounts in blood, milk, glass, and light. It is a work that functions as the poet’s literary offering to God, a vast and entrancing tableau for readers of any spiritual disposition.
Wrong Psalms is a singular work of devotion to art and to language, draped in sublime lyricism and impregnable mystery.
Are we happy in eternity? I ask.
You answer, Are we happy now?
Wrong Psalms is the debut collection of poems by Lamb.
With the mythological reverberations of H.D and soft tenacity of Raymond Carver, the poet weighs his duties: to self, to family, to vast entities and structures both earthly and beyond. But his visionary translation of the world relays that perhaps the world cannot be measured at all.
For he does not reconcile the fissures between flesh and soil, the living and departed, the existence of capital in a society ostensibly devised by intangible human spirit. He magnifies these theatric disparities. Walks astride them across the American West under suburbia’s dusk and forest’s dawn. Imbues them with a sweet humor or, at times, a darker melancholia. The poetic pilgrimage of a young father emerges, who renders his accounts in blood, milk, glass, and light. It is a work that functions as the poet’s literary offering to God, a vast and entrancing tableau for readers of any spiritual disposition.
Wrong Psalms is a singular work of devotion to art and to language, draped in sublime lyricism and impregnable mystery.
