{"product_id":"to-2040","title":"To 2040","description":"\u003cspan\u003e\u003cp dir=\"ltr\"\u003e\u003cspan\u003e\u003cb\u003eIt is rare to find in one collection an entire skyline burning and the quiet to follow a single worm, to hear soil breathe\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/span\u003e\u003cspan\u003e\u003cb\u003e—\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/span\u003e\u003cb\u003ein Jorie Graham''s fifteenth poetry collection, you do.\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003c\/span\u003e\u003cspan\u003e\u003cp dir=\"ltr\"\u003e\u003cspan\u003eJorie Graham’s fifteenth poetry collection,\u003c\/span\u003e\u003cspan\u003e\u003ci\u003e To 2040\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/span\u003e\u003cspan\u003e, opens in question punctuated as fact: “Are \u003c\/span\u003e\u003cspan\u003ewe \/ extinct yet. Who owns \/ the map.” In these visionary new poems, Graham is part historian, \u003c\/span\u003e\u003cspan\u003epart cartographer as she plots an apocalyptic world where rain must be translated, silence sings \u003c\/span\u003e\u003cspan\u003elouder than speech, and wired birds parrot recordings of their extinct ancestors. In one poem, the speaker is warned by a clairvoyant “the American experiment will end in 2030.” Graham shows us our potentially inevitable future soundtracked by sirens among industrial ruins, contemplating the loss of those who inhabited and named them. \u003c\/span\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp dir=\"ltr\"\u003e\u003cspan\u003eIn sparse lines that move with cinematic precision, these poems pan from overhead views of \u003c\/span\u003e\u003cspan\u003ereshaped shorelines to close-ups of a worm burrowing through earth. Here, we linger, climate \u003c\/span\u003e\u003cspan\u003ecrisis on hold, as Graham asks us to sit silently, to hear soil breathe. An urgent open letter to the \u003c\/span\u003e\u003cspan\u003efuture, with a habit of looking back, \u003c\/span\u003e\u003cspan\u003e\u003ci\u003eTo 2040\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/span\u003e\u003cspan\u003e is narrated by a speaker who reflects on her own \u003c\/span\u003e\u003cspan\u003emortality—in the glass window of a radiotherapy room, in the first “claw full of hair” placed \u003c\/span\u003e\u003cspan\u003egently on a green shower ledge. In poems that look to 2040 as both future and event-horizon, we leave the collection warned, infinitely wiser, and yet more attentively on edge. “Inhale. \/ Are you still there \/ the sun says to me.” And, from the title poem, “what was yr message, what were u meant to \/ pass on?”\u003c\/span\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\u003cspan\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/span\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003c\/span\u003e","brand":"MediaPlace","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":57195127636350,"sku":"NW9781556597091","price":14.03,"currency_code":"GBP","in_stock":true}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/0817\/1379\/1261\/files\/9781556597091.jpg?v=1778544505","url":"https:\/\/mediaplace.com\/products\/to-2040","provider":"MediaPlace","version":"1.0","type":"link"}