To read the poems in this collection is to be instantly. Wondrously infected with perplexity. These poems make us look for what, inside language, we may have not yet necessarily known we were looking for. In each poem, precariously poised as Neuberg is between syntactical newness and each free act of the mind, she purges us of our anticipation of what the creative act is. Thus, as in the same manner as Susan Howe, Marie Ponsot and Barbara Guest and Martha Collins, poetries of vibrance, meditation and great music, Neuberg’s poetry reveals itself behind the multiple (and often embedded) levels that reality for her, from one poem to the next takes on. This is how we find a poet writing always amid the flash point at frontiers of both verbal experiment and perception.
The door to the endless (quoting in full):
Is closing! Must run!
Will I? Won’t I?
Something’s going
Quick enough to measure.
Will I? Won’t I?
Something’s going
Quick enough to measure.
I rush to keep what’s left
Of what’s leaving.
* * *
Of what’s leaving.
* * *
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