Beth Bachmann is an American poet.
Bachmann is Assistant Professor of creative writing at Vanderbilt University.[1] Her poems have appeared in American Poetry Review, Kenyon Review, Antioch Review,[2] AGNI, Prairie Schooner, Blackbird,[3] Tin House, and Ploughshares.[4] They are included in the textbook The Practice of Creative Writing (Bedford/St. Martin's).[5]
Contents |
Bachmann’s poems grabbed me because of their violence—was I just looking for it?—but it was a violence which was often implied, a sense of foreboding, a mood often just beneath the surface, rather than Wertmuller’s horrifying image of a family of ten being gunned down in a mass grave. And it’s not that I don’t like Wertmuller’s films—I do. I guess this particular evening I just wanted the striptease, not the naked body; the faint hint of heat, not the bottle of Tabasco. - D.A. Powell[14]
metamorphosis, resonance, transformation, the alchemy of art. Bachmann is able-by a few simple, direct gestures...to connect her personal grief and tragedy to the whole tradition of English (and Western) verse and to the poetic impulse itself to make beauty out of sorrow. - A.E. Stallings [15]
formidable...mind-boggling...absolutely tonic...when George Herbert wrote about temper he meant that process by which metals are beaten and burned and subjected to dire extremity so as to gain their supple resilience and serviceable strength. That is the work these poems do. - Linda Gregerson [16]
Restraint and abandon ride side-by-side through these fiercely distilled poems-again and again they bear reluctant witness to the shadows hovering around the edges of every moment. Temper starts with an evocation of a mystery-an empty train station, the words of a last phone call, a sister's body beside the tracks. Move closer. I want to tell you a story, the poet murmurs alluringly, as if to implicate us in the crime. A beautiful unease suffuses these poems-they make me aware I'm alive, and certain of nothing. A stunning debut. - Nick Flynn [17]