News at Eleven: [Lucie] Brock-Broido's marriages of the abstract

and the concrete, and of the wild and the familiar, not only make things strange (to borrow Seamus Heaney's famous dictum) but also create a sense that this strangeness is more like home than the sorry approximations that convention allows:

In the space between seasons
Which is one night in a life,
The corn beats inside its stalks, waiting for bloom.
The wheat flowers, falls easily.
The clouds become enormous & have names.

from Scotland on Sunday: John Burnside: 'By closing our minds to American verse, we are losing sight of all that poetry has to offer'

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