Perfecta

perfecta

ISBN 9780988924857

In Perfecta, Patty Seyburn continues her one-of-a-kind witchery, casting spells that bind the humorous to the philosophical in ways that look headlong at the living world and make use of every inch of it. From winding, discursive poems that question her own passions to short lyrics that give lovely little eye-rolls to her unrelenting obsessions, Perfecta is at once personal and transcendent, joining the politics of dinner parties and lines from Hass and Biblical allusion and the memory of Detroit. After reading this book, I want to make something. —Jericho Brown

Flummoxed and fraught, beset by free will, the characters who populate Patty Seyburn’s fabulous poems live like us. They apply for jobs, they eat out, they bike, they raise kids, they hate clowns—they do what we do, only with the confidence of Plato, which means skeptically. —Alan Michael Parker

Not too many people could figure out a way to be hilarious about ancient Greek philosophy, but for Patty Seyburn it’s a walk in the park, or perhaps, a ball hit out of the park, as are so many poems in Perfecta. What I love most about them is that they’re pure Seyburn: full of her inimitable, quirky, funny and affecting voice. No one else would imagine a mathematically minded brother “in another life . . . run [ning] around with some kook like Pythagoras or Newton,” or point out, in discussing the use of a stone for a pillow, “that’s what Jacob used/ and he slept fine,” or give us wide-reaching statements from “time emits a foul smell if you ask me” to “the gifted and talented are gullible.” But these seeming wisecracks—unforgettable as they are—can’t possibly convey the scope of this terrific book. You’ll simply have to read it. —Jacqueline Osherow.

Excerpt:

ROSES: CHAPTER TWO

When at night you cut
the corner and see
stars, they are lovely--
in a semi-conscious
sort of way. Even
the crows here are
afflicted with it--
beauty, I mean—I am
ever-startled by
some flash of underwing.
The tire-swing suspended
from its green chain,
the indelicate gravel
that reveals the presence
of the man come to
read the meter—none
are exempt, gorgeous
to the core. Roses
must compete and so
sulk, aim their thorns
at mortal judges.
The pain both quick
and sustaining.