Henri Cole


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When a poet of extraordinary gifts makes a profound change, it is an event for the art itself.  "Blizzard" is such an event.              Louise Glück
Over the last 15 years ... Cole has invented and mastered his own version of the sonnet, a compact lyric utterance that drills down on a single experience, moment, or startled vision, and surprises with every line ... it's true poetry, the thing we mean by that word. —Craig Morgan Teicher, NPR

In Blizzard ... ordinary life shares a plane with the eerie, the uncanny, and the berserk. A menagerie of cats, snails, flies, bees, and other creatures fills these poems, acting simultaneously as heralds bearing news and scavengers feasting on our bodies ... Blizzard, like many of Cole's recent books, is full of sonnets. He has made the form his own: often they begin loose-limbed and amiable, with an anecdote, then fall through a trapdoor of reminiscence and rue. ―Dan Chiasson, The New Yorker

Blizzard] is a book operating across borders ― those of dignity and civilization versus barbarity and regression, of organization versus chaos. The poems themselves are carefully ordered, and there is something of Lowell’s sonnet-phase to them; they often clock in around the 14-line mark, but with a good deal of license taken, and have the quality of a casual cocktail with plenty of beautiful, aphoristic lines clinking like ice in the glass.      ―Declan Ryan, Los Angeles Review of Books