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Decoy

Poems by Elaine Equi

“Equi’s second collection emerges as a provocative mixture of postmodern eclecticism and graceful wit . . . [she] successfully merges the serious and the absurd in language that is by turns ironic, frivolous and lyrical.” —Publishers Weekly

November 1994
6 x 9 | 80 pages
Paperback Original

ISBN: 978-1-56689-026-7.

$11.95

Description

“In Elaine Equi’s brilliant Decoy, each poem is a ‘neatly folded labyrinth.’ Here everything is artifice—like the labyrinth, a deadly little joke, one we’re ‘in on’ until, suddenly, we’re not so sure. The poems in this book are both spooky and spoofy. Eventually we realize that, despite its campy, B-movie trappings, the monster (our world) is real. We realize this gradually because of Equi’s light touch. Like Muhammed Ali, she floats while stinging.” —Rae Armantrout

Decoy moves upon you gradually with postludes of gentleness . . . then agile maneuvers that seize us unaware. The flawless title poem, ‘Decoy,’ twists as if on a perilous frame, and it is. We acknowledge the dependency of poetry on the poet’s sensibility. Here at each turn of her stanzas, askew or bluntly set . . . the poem feasts on dependency. ‘o empiricism / o anatomy.’ O poet.” —Barbara Guest

Reviews

“This is exceedingly delicate work, infused with a sly and bawdy sense of humor, and when she’s on, she’s one of the best.” —The Nation

“Equi’s second collection emerges as a provocative mixture of postmodern eclecticism and graceful wit . . . [she] successfully merges the serious and the absurd in language that is by turns ironic, frivolous and lyrical.” —Publishers Weekly

“What she reflects on is never easy.  Decoy is work with wide-open eyes alert to surprises, steady in shocks.  It’s serious poetry.” —Lit: Chicago’s Literary Supplement

“Elaine Equi deftly collides bawdiness and faith, pop culture and high art, complexity and ease . . . the poems in Decoy are logically and syntactically taut, their surfaces tidy and terse with the frequent connectives lending an apparent seamlessness.” —Tom Clark for The San Francisco Chronicle