Open Daily: 10am - 10pm | Alley door pickup 10am - 7pm 3038 Hennepin Ave Minneapolis, MN
612-822-4611

  • Open Daily: 10am - 10pm
    Alley-side Pickup: 10am - 7pm

    3038 Hennepin Ave Minneapolis, MN
    612-822-4611

Open Daily: 10am - 10pm | Alley-side Pickup: 10am - 7pm
3038 Hennepin Ave Minneapolis, MN
612-822-4611
Resin

Resin

Weber, Julie

Paperback

General Poetry

ISBN10: 061563348X
ISBN13: 9780615633480
Publisher: Createspace
Published: May 21 2012
Pages: 90
Weight: 0.32
Height: 0.22 Width: 5.98 Depth: 9.02
Language: English

The three poems that comprise Resin create a narrative about wounding, about an immensity of things we miss in our interactions. About the magnitude of crises we are facing in the midst of our vast denial. Make no mistake: Resin opens post trauma, and in it, we face an aftermath and the scope of its question and consequences. Resin questions personal and anthropocentric narcissism. It engages reflections on the critical question: Where are we going? It asks us to step beyond simplistic notions to embrace a systemic, synchronistic totality.

Resin will appeal to people connected to deep ecology, to issues of social justice, to visionaries and healers, to people with trauma and/or disabilities, to anyone questioning the status of things as they are. Not only are the poems lyrical, they are mystical, meaningful and relevant. Instigative of shifts. Poems for the collective.

In Resin, Julie takes us inside an intimacy of heightened sensitivities. What does it mean to be a microcosm of the macrocosm? What does it mean to be a knit to the landscape? To be embodied in this time when we are facing vast repercussions of our dis/ease? Resin illuminates the split between embodiment and ascension, between enlightenment and grounding. It's a collection of reverence and shock, a testament of vulnerability. An invitation to permutations of consciousness that move beyond linear direction and begin to connect us to multivalent reality.

my first symptom in the forest / was restlessness, anxiety. / i had to open the wound / to the handle of the trees, / let them sift the light back and forth / over my broken body

like brushes / whispering their needles / across my skin, / plucking their stringed instruments/ at a pitch lower than my impatience, / burnishing me

taking me in, / drawing me out, /stitching me up obliquely,

my irises / grown green and brown / as their trunks and needles / understudies / in the resuscitation.

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