Overview

A daring and intimate new book by the poet and memoirist Nick Flynn, a champion of contemporary American poetry (Newpages) . . . the take from his bank jobs, all of it will come to me, if I can just get him to draw me a map, if I can find the tree, if I can find the shovel. And the house, the mansion he grew up in, soon a lawyer will pass a key across a walnut desk, but even this lawyer will not be able to tell me where this mansion is. --from Kafka In My Feelings, Nick Flynn makes no claims on anyone else's. These poems inhabit a continually shifting sense of selfhood, in the attempt to contain quicksilver realms of emotional energy--from grief and panic to gratitude and understanding.

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9781555977108

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Reviews

From the first moment I looked up from a page Nick Flynn had written on, I was a goner: I wasn't where I used to be; I went somewhere with him, into consciousness itself, into time, into a story so shattered that only poetry could begin to tell it. Here he is again, writing as if his life depends on it, using every trick he can find to carve the tunnel through the mountain. Words are what he uses; silence is the sound they make. Nick Flynn keeps resuscitating himself, and in doing so he refreshes and reaffirms the personal lyric as a crucial and necessary art. I read Nick Flynn's poetry to feel alive. --Marie Howe Each word is a lit match, a thrown stone, a howling blast, a choking torrent. Flynn has forged daringly intimate and clarion poems of conscience. --Booklist on Nick Flynn [Flynn's] books of poetry--Some Ether, Blind Huber, The Captain Asks for a Show of Hands--all ask difficult questions and leave us with a beautiful acceptance that there is often no answer at all, that our memories arrange things in ways that may or may not offer closure. There is something about his work that allows us to exhale, to sit in our own messes and be okay. --Rumpus on Nick Flynn

Praise for My Feelings Praise for Nick Flynn From the first moment I looked up from a page Nick Flynn had written on, I was a goner: I wasn't where I used to be; I went somewhere with him, into consciousness itself, into time, into a story so shattered that only poetry could begin to tell it. Here he is again, writing as if his life depends on it, using every trick he can find to carve the tunnel through the mountain. Words are what he uses; silence is the sound they make. Nick Flynn keeps resuscitating himself, and in doing so he refreshes and reaffirms the personal lyric as a crucial and necessary art. I read Nick Flynn's poetry to feel alive. --Marie Howe Each word is a lit match, a thrown stone, a howling blast, a choking torrent. Flynn has forged daringly intimate and clarion poems of conscience. --Booklist on Nick Flynn [Flynn's] books of poetry--Some Ether, Blind Huber, The Captain Asks for a Show of Hands--all ask difficult questions and leave us with a beautiful acceptance that there is often no answer at all, that our memories arrange things in ways that may or may not offer closure. There is something about his work that allows us to exhale, to sit in our own messes and be okay. --Rumpus on Nick Flynn From the first moment I looked up from a page Nick Flynn had written on, I was a goner: I wasn't where I used to be; I went somewhere with him, into consciousness itself, into time, into a story so shattered that only poetry could begin to tell it. Here he is again, writing as if his life depends on it, using every trick he can find to carve the tunnel through the mountain. Words are what he uses; silence is the sound they make. Nick Flynn keeps resuscitating himself, and in doing so he refreshes and reaffirms the personal lyric as a crucial and necessary art. I read Nick Flynn's poetry to feel alive. Marie Howe Each word is a lit match, a thrown stone, a howling blast, a choking torrent. Flynn has forged daringly intimate and clarion poems of conscience. Booklist on Nick Flynn [Flynn's] books of poetry-- Some Ether, Blind Huber, The Captain Asks for a Show of Hands --all ask difficult questions and leave us with a beautiful acceptance that there is often no answer at all, that our memories arrange things in ways that may or may not offer closure. There is something about his work that allows us to exhale, to sit in our own messes and be okay. Rumpus on Nick Flynn Praise for My Feelings From the first moment I looked up from a page Nick Flynn had written on, I was a goner: I wasn't where I used to be; I went somewhere with him, into consciousness itself, into time, into a story so shattered that only poetry could begin to tell it. Here he is again, writing as if his life depends on it, using every trick he can find to carve the tunnel through the mountain. Words are what he uses; silence is the sound they make. Nick Flynn keeps resuscitating himself, and in doing so he refreshes and reaffirms the personal lyric as a crucial and necessary art. I read Nick Flynn's poetry to feel alive. --Marie Howe Praise for Nick Flynn Each word is a lit match, a thrown stone, a howling blast, a choking torrent. Flynn has forged daringly intimate and clarion poems of conscience. -- Booklist [Flynn's] books of poetry-- Some Ether, Blind Huber, The Captain Asks for a Show of Hands --all ask difficult questions and leave us with a beautiful acceptance that there is often no answer at all, that our memories arrange things in ways that may or may not offer closure. There is something about his work that allows us to exhale, to sit in our own messes and be okay. -- Rumpus Praise for Nick Flynn Each word is a lit match, a thrown stone, a howling blast, a choking torrent. Flynn has forged daringly intimate and clarion poems of conscience. -- Booklist [Flynn's] books of poetry-- Some Ether, Blind Huber, The Captain Asks for a Show of Hands --all ask difficult questions and leave us with a beautiful acceptance that there is often no answer at all, that our memories arrange things in ways that may or may not offer closure. There is something about his work that allows us to exhale, to sit in our own messes and be okay. -- Rumpus

Author Information

Nick Flynn is the award-winning author of three previous books of poetry, including Some Ether, and three memoirs, including Another Bullshit Night in Suck City. He teaches at the University of Houston, and divides his time between Houston and Brooklyn, New York.

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