From the Publisher
"Jill Bialosky slips Persephone's pomegranate seeds into her own poet's hand, then dives deep in Subterranean, locating fragments of girlhood and womanhood to assemble into a mythic underworld collage. If Beatrice herself were a suburban American girl who preceded Dante on his journey, these lyrics might be what she would tell us. You never get to heaven without the descent, as she, the Greek gods, and Jill Bialosky know very welland we come to know through this alluring, surprising second volume of poems, where this poet comes into her own."
"These wonderful poems call to us at first with their lyric surfaces. But the music of their language is really thin ice and not far underneath is the dark, chill power of the book's true themes: sexuality, regret, the loss of children, the tainting of childhood, the nature of erotic pain. It is rare that a reader can be enchanted and endangered at the same time. This is a book of splendid and disturbing ambition."
"Bialosky takes certain essentialitiesspring and winter, suffering and desire, the surface life and the sweetly subtle pull of the life belowand makes them achingly local. The poems in SUBTERRANEAN reveal one woman's psychic territory, lucidly and passionately mapped."
"Jill Bialosky's second book of poems, SUBTERRANEAN, is an advance in psychic depth and expressive eloquence beyond her distinguished THE END OF DESIRE. Her new work fully establishes her voice: poignant, perilous, overwhelmingly aware of the extent to which our lives, inner and outer, are deflected by contingency, and by drives of love and death that govern us."
Read an Excerpt
A Child Banishes the Darkness
The child presides over our lives like the
Blinding presence of tall white pines. In the
Low room she hovers; she is the dark un-
tamed place, like a thicket in a neglect-
ed wood where I fall to after each new loss, the unforgotten dream buried like a small toy under layers of frozen un-raked leaves. She is the hidden secret we don’t talk about because there is noth-
ing left to say. So much snow on the roofs of tall buildings, along the cobbled streets,
in the eaves, and on the narrow bridge and in the quiet palm of the newborn trees.
Nothing left to fear. All the earth is calm.
She did not know when it would happen or how it would overtake her or whether she would allow herself.
All I know is that she could not take it anymore lying day after day underneath the hollow tree, waiting,
consumed by a kind of fire,
wondering if there is a type of love that saves us or whether there was more to the world than the familiar paradise of her mother's complicated and vivid garden.
She smelled nectar in the labored-over chrysanthemum and amaryllis,
but could not taste it.
I know if it were a flower it would have bloomed in the cumulus overhead void of volition and sin,
translucent as the filmy underside of a leaf.
If it were an animal she would have followed it,
but it was amorphous as feeling, weightless as dust,
turbulent as an entire undisclosed universe radiating from the inner core beneath the earth and, still, she longed for it.
Restless, she wandered from the elm to the school-yard to smother an intensity she could not squelch or simmer.
The wind swooned. Cement cracked. Deep into the underbelly light traveled, no one in sight but his immense shadow,
and then a figure appeared out of the imagined dream and matched it. So powerful, not for who he was but for how her mind had magnified him like a bug underneath cool glass,
every antenna and tentacle aquiver.
No sign of where she had been or who she came from. Only knowledge that it would never be re-created except by this: putting words down on a page and that she had forever compromised the joy of summer for a dismal, endless winter.
And as the field of force gathered,
raping every last silvery bough,
tantalizing each limb,
she forgot even the feel of herself.
When it was over she felt moisture. Rain.