In the Lateness of the World: Poems

by Carolyn Forché Narrated by Carolyn Forché

Overview

FINALIST FOR THE 2021 PULITZER PRIZE FOR POETRY

“An undisputed literary event.” -NPR

“History-with its construction and its destruction-is at the heart of In the Lateness of the World. . . . In [it] one feels the poet cresting a wave-a new wave that will crash onto new lands and unexplored territories.” -Hilton Als, The New Yorker

Over four decades, Carolyn Forché's visionary work has reinvigorated poetry's power to awaken the reader. Her groundbreaking poems have been testimonies, inquiries, and wonderments. They daringly map a territory where poetry asserts our inexhaustible responsibility to one another.

Her first new collection in seventeen years, In the Lateness of the World is a tenebrous book of crossings, of migrations across oceans and borders but also between the present and the past, life and death. The world here seems to be steadily vanishing, but in the moments before the uncertain end, an illumination arrives and “there is nothing that cannot be seen.” In the Lateness of the World is a revelation from one of the finest poets writing today.

Editorial Reviews

MAY 2020 - AudioFile

The auditory experience is a large part of appreciating poetry. This audio performance of Forché's latest collection appeals to the ear as the poet herself presses her own words forward, kneading images like bread. Forché's voice is urgent and sincere, emotional and invested. That said, there is also a visual element to poetry, and some pieces lend themselves better to the audio format than others. While Forché's performance is capable and clear, there is an overwhelming quality to the collection, intentional or not. The ability to see the words on the page would likely temper that effect and allow more of the lines to resonate. Forché's audiobook is well suited to short listening periods. L.B.F. © AudioFile 2020, Portland, Maine

From the Publisher

The title of Carolyn Forché’s new collection seems prophetic. Seventeen years in the making, In the Lateness of the World is an act of witness, going repeatedly into the darkness of death and loss. . . .  Forché’s almost incantatory way with image produces a strange tone, spell-bound but also emotionally charged, in which time and place shift and blur – because we’re all implicated.” —The Guardian

“Forché’s stately stanzas—her writing is never hurried—are the work of a literary reporter, Gloria Emerson as filtered through the eyes of Elizabeth Bishop or Grace Paley. Free of jingoism but not of moral gravity, Forché’s work questions—when it does question—how to be or to become a thinking, caring, communicating adult. Taken together, Forché’s five books of verse—the most recent, ‘In the Lateness of the World’ (Penguin Press), was published in March—are about action: memory as action, vision and writing as action. She asks us to consider the sometimes unrecognized, though always felt, ways in which power inserts itself into our lives and to think about how we can move forward with what we know. History—with its construction and its destruction—is at the heart of ‘In the Lateness of the World’ . . . In [it] one feels the poet cresting a wave—a new wave that will crash onto new lands and unexplored territories.” —Hilton Als, The New Yorker
 
“In the Lateness of the World is a testament to the aftermath of human culture . . . Forché’s belief that it is the poet’s responsibility to speak truth from these wounded cities creates poems that are sometimes difficult to reckon with even as they soar in moments of unexpected beauty.” —The New York Times Book Review

“An undisputed literary event.” —Craig Morgan Teicher, NPR

“Anyone familiar with Forché’s work knows that her poetry of witness moves well beyond stunning imagery, having broad implications for the lives it hopes to remember and the readers it hopes to implore. . . . There is in these poems a sense of responsibility: to the fullness of lives unnecessarily unbound; to poetry and its insistence on meaning; to attention and action, no matter the cost.” —World Literature Today
 
“Carolyn Forché's fourth poetry collection, Blue Hour, appeared in 2003, and her readers have longed for the next ever since. It’s hard to imagine any poetry book worth a wait of 17 years. Forché’s new collection, In the Lateness of the World, is worth more.” —Sojourners

"Auden once wrote that poetry makes nothing happen, but in Forche's work, her life-long commitment to poetry and the poetic utterance, we see how poetry can transform. Both What You Have Heard Is True and In the Lateness of the World are essential reading not only for anyone interested in poetry, but in the world we live in." —Independent (Ireland)

“Throughout her career, Forché has forged poems of witness, and she does so here with beauty and lyricism.”  —Library Journal

Library Journal

02/01/2020

In her first new collection in 17 years, Forché (Blue Hour), who received an Academy of American Poets Fellowship for distinguished poetic achievement in 2013, transports readers to faraway cities and islands and former and current war zones. Many poems exhibit an ethereal quality despite being grounded in the physicality of objects: "On the nativity tree, a tiny lute, a French horn and painted egg." Descriptions of past wars with their trails of graves bring the work to recent times, as do poems such as "The Boatman," which records a horrific sea crossing by immigrants not welcome anywhere. The writer also documents our damaged planet—"Motor scooters flock through the streets, a murmuration./ Crossing like starlings the skies. It is a matter of thirst"—with noatably long lines carrying the weight of her meaning. VERDICT Throughout her career, Forché has forged poems of witness, and she does so here with beauty and lyricism. The one misstep is an overabundance of list poems; Forché can bring to life objects better than nearly anyone, but we want the revelatory journey behind them. Yet, finally, this bounty of rich poetry is recommended for all collections.—Doris Lynch, Monroe Cty. P.L., Bloomington, IN

MAY 2020 - AudioFile

The auditory experience is a large part of appreciating poetry. This audio performance of Forché's latest collection appeals to the ear as the poet herself presses her own words forward, kneading images like bread. Forché's voice is urgent and sincere, emotional and invested. That said, there is also a visual element to poetry, and some pieces lend themselves better to the audio format than others. While Forché's performance is capable and clear, there is an overwhelming quality to the collection, intentional or not. The ability to see the words on the page would likely temper that effect and allow more of the lines to resonate. Forché's audiobook is well suited to short listening periods. L.B.F. © AudioFile 2020, Portland, Maine

Product Details

BN ID:	2940177566825
Publisher:	Penguin Random House
Publication date:	03/10/2020
Edition description:	Unabridged

Read an Excerpt

Museum of Stones

These are your stones, assembled in matchbox and tin,

collected from roadside, culvert, and viaduct,

battlefield, threshing floor, basilica, abattoir-

stones, loosened by tanks in the streets,

from a city whose earliest map was drawn in ink on linen,

schoolyard stones in the hand of a corpse,

pebble from Baudelaire's oui,

stone of the mind within us

carried from one silence to another,

stone of cromlech and cairn, schist and shale, hornblende,

agate, marble, millstones, ruins of choirs and shipyards,

chalk, marl, mudstone from temples and tombs,

stone from the silvery grass near the scaffold,

stone from the tunnel lined with bones,

lava of a city's entombment, stones

chipped from lighthouse, cell wall, scriptorium,

paving stones from the hands of those who rose against the army,

stones where the bells had fallen, where the bridges were blown,

those that had flown through windows, weighted petitions,

feldspar, rose quartz, blue schist, gneiss, and chert,

fragments of an abbey at dusk, sandstone toe

of a Buddha mortared at Bamian,

stone from the hill of three crosses and a crypt,

from a chimney where storks cried like human children,

stones newly fallen from stars, a stillness of stones, a heart,

altar and boundary stone, marker and vessel, first cast, load and hail,

bridge stones and others to pave and shut up with,

stone apple, stone basil, beech, berry, stone brake,

concretion of the body, as blind as cold as deaf,

all earth a quarry, all life a labor, stone-faced, stone-drunk

with hope that this assemblage of rubble, taken together, would become

a shrine or holy place, an ossuary, immovable and sacred

like the stone that marked the path of the sun as it entered the human dawn.

The Boatman

We were thirty-one souls, he said, in the gray-sick of sea

in a cold rubber boat, rising and falling in our filth.

By morning this didn't matter, no land was in sight,

all were soaked to the bone, living and dead.

We could still float, we said, from war to war.

What lay behind us but ruins of stone piled on ruins of stone?

City called "mother of the poor" surrounded by fields

of cotton and millet, city of jewelers and cloak-makers,

with the oldest church in Christendom and the Sword of Allah.

If anyone remains there now, he assures, they would be utterly alone.

There is a hotel named for it in Rome two hundred meters

from the Piazza di Spagna, where you can have breakfast under

the portraits of film stars. There the staff cannot do enough for you.

But I am talking nonsense again, as I have since that night

we fetched a child, not ours, from the sea, drifting face-

down in a life vest, its eyes taken by fish or the birds above us.

After that, Aleppo went up in smoke, and Raqqa came under a rain

of leaflets warning everyone to go. Leave, yes, but go where?

We lived through the Americans and Russians, through Americans

again, many nights of death from the clouds, mornings surprised

to be waking from the sleep of death, still unburied and alive

with no safe place. Leave, yes, we'll obey the leaflets, but go where?

To the sea to be eaten, to the shores of Europe to be caged?

To camp misery and camp remain here. I ask you then, where?

You tell me you are a poet. If so, our destination is the same.

I find myself now the boatman, driving a taxi at the end of the world.

I will see that you arrive safely, my friend, I will get you there.

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