FIRST LITERARY REVIEW-EAST

Amy Holman is an intelligent and quirky storyteller. And I say this not just as the reviewer of her poetry collection, Wrens Fly Through This Opened Window, but also as a participant in one of her workshops. At the time, neither of us knew that Holman's book, filled with poems about shadows of day-to-day living, would land in my hands. But I am thrilled it did. It's fascinating to see her persona, especially her wit and imagination, carry over into her poetry.

At first glance, I was stumped by the title of the book. I wanted to know more. So I decided to do research and understand the world of wrens---small, perky songbirds with loud and complex sounds. The title and the content of the book are symbolic of the wren's characteristics. Like the wrens, news headlines are everywhere. True to wrens, the poems in this collection are bold and uninhibited. They are based around stories and national news.

I found myself asking the same question repeatedly: "How did she find her points of interest?" There is beauty and gore, murder and painting, distance and closeness---many surprise endings. And Holman conveys all of the emotions using sophisticated language in a matter-of-fact manner. For example, the line in the middle of the poem "Man Script: ". . . "as if his clothes and modesty were just taped on."

It would seem Holman writes about nothing, but she actually writes about everything---uncharted waters, unknown territories, her own neighborhood, and animals. She urges the reader to pause after each poem, explore possibilities. Holman's imaginative landscape includes an array of dark, disturbing, beautiful, daring, erotic, and insightful poems.

Holman sees poetry in death and loss. In the poem Coffin Birth (referring to the expulsion of a fetus when a pregnant woman drowns), she uses evocative, but realistic language, to write strong, factual words.

          . . . He is out, but
          unspecific in a vast, troubled womb.

She is intrigued by society and its contradictions, notices its randomness, recognizes its wickedness, and acknowledges it with elegance---sometimes as an observer from afar, sometimes as a keen participant. She personalizes the news headlines effortlessly and sends the readers on a poetic journey.

Although simple, everyday items appear in the book, the poems themselves aren't simple; they require a few reads. And when you are least expecting it, a philosophical and/or social message appears. The book begins with "The Cups and Spoons, The Leaves." And the last eight lines of this poem are deep and palpable:

          . . . I don't think we change
          even if we're changeable-the glass half full
          one day, half empty the next, but never the water
          carrying the glass away. One day I like to ride out
          into the city, the next hideout
          at home. We are confined by who we are
          more than what we say, even if lip readers
          read language on the day of languish, and tell.


While there is a lingering hint of nostalgia and solitude in the book, Holman is amused by the world, and she uses intelligent sarcasm to state the obvious. In the middle of the poem "Or, Something," a few lines appear that best capture her essence and abilities:

          . . . I often failed to capture the attention of men I liked, a cubist
          figure at the impressionist party. The professor did grant me
          honors after dishonoring me. That's power,
          or something.

Like the wrens flying through the opened windows in Brooklyn, Holman's poetic presence and sharp insight fly seamlessly from one poem to another, drawing the reader in as the narrator peels the layers of the world through the book in its entirety.