Dujie Tahat’s Salat is a book of poems written in a compelling new form of the poet’s own invention that participate, fully — they praise, weep, spit, beg, laugh, choke, sing. In this murderous age it is increasingly unconscionable to be inert, in one’s living or in one’s art. Tahat tells us: “There’s a river in heaven, and I am the star that belongs to it.” Salat is boisterously, resoundingly alive.

Like the wading birds of the title, the poems in this collection find their sustenance in the ground, tilling the earthly measure, even as they lift questions toward the heavens. Summoning the pastoral and the oracular by turns, the poems of Sanderlings achieve a preternatural rapture, both sensual and learned.

These fourteen-line poems give voice to the individual and collective experiences of women. They are windows into a stark otherworld, one filled with the raw materials of experience: sex, birth, cloth, pain. Spare and strange beauty marks the lives and worlds of these women, defined by their struggle for survival in the physical and psychological captivity of the domestic realm. The speaker moves between the singular and plural, sounding out the overlapping experiences of women as both subject and object of the domination inherent in settler colonialism.

In his third full-length book of poems, Joshua Corey puts the sonnet to the test with this sequence of fractured, ventilated, and unrhymed poems written in the aftermath of 9/11 while Corey was living at a pastoral remove from war and terror in upstate New York. The tension between idyllic personal circumstances and horrific world-historical events led Corey to produce this series of layered poems, variously sardonic and sincere in tone.

Shahr-e-jaanaan sets out to recreate the universe of Urdu and Persian poetic tradition, its tropes both lenses and mirrors for the speaker’s reality. As she maps her romances onto legends, directing their characters perform her own tragedy, their fantastical metaphors easily lend themselves to her fluctuating mental state. Cycling between delirious grandeur and wretched despair, she is torn between two selves— the pitiable lover continually rejected, and the cruel, unattainable beloved comparable in her exaltation to a god. Shahr-e-jaanaan explores, interrogates, and distorts these dichotomies and their symbolism, calling into question the forces that elevate some to divinity even as they damn others to injustice and oppression.

In 1953, Yoko Ono wrote a score called “Secret Piece,” an open-ended formula for musical performance in a forest at daybreak. Beginning with this invitation to creation, and using essays, diary entries, prose maps, and verse fragments, Kazim Ali marks a path through quantum physics, sixth-century Chola Empire sculptures, the challenges of literary translation and of climate change, and destruction of a priceless set of handmade flutes by airport security. Amid shards from far-flung histories and geographies he finds the cosmos.

Central to Sleep Tight Satellite is the theme of queer chosen family. This positive form of connection contrasts with violent pseudo-communities formed by policing, government control, and technological surveillance. Characters struggle to survive the pandemic, but their survival skills were honed long before the Covid-19 outbreak. There’s a gritty realism to the odd jobs characters take to survive, and the ways they create loving communities of mutual aid.

Delving into dark desire and mystery, Slick Like Dark pierces through the noise of aimless reality. These collected poems are haunting and passionate, honest and vivid, asking who bears the blame as they scatter us about the South. Poet Meg Wade carefully crafts an examination of the Southern body and the experience of a woman living in it. Depicting relationships, personal struggles and religion, lines such as “A wasp/nest, gristled angels/it’s strange, how scared/I am-quick write/down” show the complexities of creativity. Wade brings us into the intensity of this strangely relatable life while reflecting on the darker sides of what could be done or what could have been. In her characteristic, poignant style, Wade writes “This could have been a place where I would love him like a woman/who wants to have babies would”, leaving open the harsh possibilities of love unredeemed. As thrilling as they are contemplative, these poems bring us to realizations we would have shied from before.

Fascinated by what emerges from unlikely sources when absorbed into memory, Gale Marie Thompson’s poems delight in what remains: John Wayne, Bewitched, turnip fields, camellias and canned figs, and—of course—kitchens. Soldier On uses the light of the kitchen as a starting (and ending) point to explore remembered spaces, which take on new facets and textures in a flood of associations and the mind’s endless cross-indexing. Inside a world of objects, people, and artifacts, Soldier On constructs the language in which we love and lose love.

“René Char is the conscience of modern French poetry and also its calm of mind. Nancy Naomi Carlson, in these splendid translations, casts new light upon the sublime consequence of Char’s poetic character, and in Stone Lyre the case for sublimity is purely made.”—Donald Revell, poet and translator of Rimbaud and Apollinaire

In this stunning collection, Chee Brossy forges a poetics of wonder, dailiness, and transformation. Here, the “sugar cane Coke” and “the leafy houseplant[s]” of the speaker’s daily life, those artifacts of routine, are revealed as glimpses into all that is unknowable, subtle reminders of “today’s mystery.” Indeed, Brossy’s work, with its understated approach and artful evocation, reads as a celebration of all that lies beyond what can be said in language. For Brossy, a meditation on the ineffable, with its innate poeticism and philosophical allure, is not merely an exercise in aesthetics; it is revealing of culture and of the body politic. Here, we witness questions of power, agency, and resistance bound up in what seem at first like simple acts of perception and aesthetic pleasure. “A red-tipped fox trots lazily out. The knives adjust themselves in the dishwasher,” Brossy tells us in language that shines with lyricism and invention. He shows us, in fearful and loving detail, the “starlight vapor in our lungs” and the “terrible dust” within each one of us. “Strength runs through blood like horses,” Brossy reminds us. This is a complex and ultimately transformative debut.

Continuing the work begun in 2014’s Poverty Creek Journal, the lyric essays in Thomas Gardner’s Sundays focus on moments in our ordinary lives when something within us breaks and we are cast out to wander and sing, “feeling [our] way toward something [in the invisible] that will press back.” “Deep within us is a river, under it all, where everything comes undone,” Gardner writes, and over a year’s-worth of Sundays, in an improvisatory prose that “holds its breath at its [own] undoing,” he takes us there, urging us each to find that same space opening within. Twenty turkeys in the backyard, a walk with friends from overseas to a plunging waterfall, moments in the dark when flashes across the eye become a boat in rising wind tugging against its mooring—these lyric pieces, much like the sentences from Marilynne Robinson’s novel Housekeeping Gardner discovers one morning pasted on the doors and windows and staircases of the building he works in, offer us pieces of the ordinary set apart, “tiny squares of print, unfixed from narrative,” so carefully tied together under the surface that the everyday world, like Gardner’s building, seems everywhere “ringed and veined with thought.”

This is an inspiring book about writing and—more unusually—a book that honors ambition, that idiosyncratic drive that compels writers and other artists to action despite every kind of obstacle. Upton explores forces that threaten our ability to fulfill the most daring aspirations, and she examines ambition’s adjuncts, including failure, boredom, and purity, offering a provocative antidote:obsession. Ultimately Upton argues for a new perception of literary art as “a good secret” for our time, when our interior lives and our imaginations are under threat.