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The Stranger Manual
Catie Rosemurgy's second collection, The Stranger Manual, is a wild rush across the American grain. The poems follow an unlikely character named Miss Peach, an unpredictable, cartoonish shapeshifter, who emerges onto the page dragging the myth of the individual, various gender scripts, and the grand tradition of the poetic persona along with her. She becomes an outsider, a hero, an intruder, a rock star. The town around her, Gold River, is also always in flux—part center and part mirage. The Stranger Manual celebrates the fractious nature of self and society in poems that are fabulist, speculative, and alluring.
- GenresPoetry
88 pages, Paperback
First published January 1, 2009
About the author
Catie Rosemurgy
4 books18 followersCatie Rosemurgy is the author of the poetry collections The Stranger Manual and My Favorite Apocalypse. Her work has appeared in the American Poetry Review, Ploughshares, and Best American Poetry. She lives in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania."
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Displaying 1 - 13 of 13 reviews
December 4, 2012
Perfect example of what I consider dangerous poetry.
Few of my favourites:
excerpt from: Things That Didn’t Work
Touching, seriousness, snow.
The short list of lovers anyone has ever had, both of whom
have turned into long, quiet rivers.
Geraniums and their bruises that ruin
the clean edges of summer. The mother wiping
her son’s cheek with spit.
Picture frames. Targets. The psychological
boundaries described in books.
Any shape or line whatsoever.
God, as Quoted by Two Adulterers
Let no air ever come between you. No clean sheet. No lamplight.
No dust. Let the hotel curtain be your guide, the absolute fabric,
the craving to get lost like a strong thread. Go blank against
one another. Turn blue. That’s day and night. Stop needing
your own blood so. Dry up and get in one another’s eyes.
You’ll be blind soon, so feel more. Your very fingerprints
are at sake. Let the head lie down with the white bed,
let the belly lie with the whole empty day. Let the shoulder cave in
against the mouth, the mouth against the eyelash. Peace is not stillness. The hip joint, the smile —- for heaven’s sake —- daisies, river stones, beer bottles, gravel, church bells. Everything is loose. The world is a rope and a plank. A swing. Far outside your borrowed window, whole species of grass collapse for the wind. Don’t think you are any different. Kiss hard. Burrow if you have any sense. Shudder
while you still can. Let freckles lie with tears. Deceive, at least, yourselves. Say “There’s always next time.” Press like pages. Fade like violets. Break like leaves when one of you walks away. Pour like honey
over one another when both of you are full. Stick. Stick. Stick.
Miss Peach: The War Years
She's been lobbed,
and like the other grenades
can't help but like
the deeply American ache
where the pin used to be.
She is a squat,
angry seed that blooms
into absence, into big flowers
of what was, a trick fruit
that creates its own mouth,
a wild eye that blinks
it's own face away. Luckily,
she feels only the slightest tingle
of the empiricism, of the impact she'll have
wherever she land.
She's had to insinuate herself
into everything else: the concept
of time, the elaborate and ruthless culture of love, the life cycle
of trees. But the space that must be
cleared for her, the threat
she poses to other living things,
this is her radius.
Few of my favourites:
excerpt from: Things That Didn’t Work
Touching, seriousness, snow.
The short list of lovers anyone has ever had, both of whom
have turned into long, quiet rivers.
Geraniums and their bruises that ruin
the clean edges of summer. The mother wiping
her son’s cheek with spit.
Picture frames. Targets. The psychological
boundaries described in books.
Any shape or line whatsoever.
God, as Quoted by Two Adulterers
Let no air ever come between you. No clean sheet. No lamplight.
No dust. Let the hotel curtain be your guide, the absolute fabric,
the craving to get lost like a strong thread. Go blank against
one another. Turn blue. That’s day and night. Stop needing
your own blood so. Dry up and get in one another’s eyes.
You’ll be blind soon, so feel more. Your very fingerprints
are at sake. Let the head lie down with the white bed,
let the belly lie with the whole empty day. Let the shoulder cave in
against the mouth, the mouth against the eyelash. Peace is not stillness. The hip joint, the smile —- for heaven’s sake —- daisies, river stones, beer bottles, gravel, church bells. Everything is loose. The world is a rope and a plank. A swing. Far outside your borrowed window, whole species of grass collapse for the wind. Don’t think you are any different. Kiss hard. Burrow if you have any sense. Shudder
while you still can. Let freckles lie with tears. Deceive, at least, yourselves. Say “There’s always next time.” Press like pages. Fade like violets. Break like leaves when one of you walks away. Pour like honey
over one another when both of you are full. Stick. Stick. Stick.
Miss Peach: The War Years
She's been lobbed,
and like the other grenades
can't help but like
the deeply American ache
where the pin used to be.
She is a squat,
angry seed that blooms
into absence, into big flowers
of what was, a trick fruit
that creates its own mouth,
a wild eye that blinks
it's own face away. Luckily,
she feels only the slightest tingle
of the empiricism, of the impact she'll have
wherever she land.
She's had to insinuate herself
into everything else: the concept
of time, the elaborate and ruthless culture of love, the life cycle
of trees. But the space that must be
cleared for her, the threat
she poses to other living things,
this is her radius.
January 2, 2010
Catie Rosemurgy's first collection of poems, "My Favorite Apocalypse" remains one of my favorite poetry collections of all time, and so I was extremely excited to read her second book. I admire Rosemurgy's approach in using "characters" as part of her own voice, and this collection centers around the character "Miss Peach." While Miss Peach's poems did not immediately grab me the way the Billy and Grace poems did from "MFA," there was a certain authority in the voice that I really enjoyed. Each poem about or featuring Miss Peach left me holding a little piece of a puzzle I'm still not quite sure I've put together correctly. (In a good way.) In general, I think there is a great deal of authority in these poems. Rosemurgy stays true to her roots, I think, in the resurfacing of the "aging rock star" and images of identity in general. Who we are and where we stand in the world-- these are the things we all write about, the things that make a good poem, and, as a whole, a good collection.
July 1, 2010
Every line a surprise.
January 4, 2011
Weird, meat-colored poetry with lipstick on.
January 23, 2011
Note: The review box is not allowing me to maintain the long lines of the original in this first excerpt.
Excerpt 1:
"She explains to several generations
of Princess-Cruise addicts behind the makeup counter that she's looking for a lip color
she can call Too Long in the Pool, or perhaps Why Did I Eat That? Her face is bound
to keep popping up here and there, underneath her lover and behind
the things she says. Beauty is for maple trees. When people look at her,
Miss Peach wants each of them to worry: wait a second, did I just beat her up?" (5)
(from "Miss Peach Goes Shopping")
Excerpt 2:
"Love isn't above starting this way:
you can drop me from a second-story window
if you pin me against it first....
Sure, I'm sick of the source of great fire
always being the sun. A few nights ago he peeled off of me
as if he were my own skin and he didn't want the job." (36)
(from "Miss Peach: The College Years")
Peaches can be bruised. Yes.
D.H. Lawrence compared this fruit to female genitalia in one of those novels that was supposed by some to empower by acknowledging the very existence of feminine desire.
The dominant character in Catie Rosemurgy's second collection isn't exactly a feminist. She can't really trust any female person, especially herself: " I watch myself being kind sometimes / and I think, is there nothing you won't fake?" (38). No wonder her relationships are so unsatisfactory.
If Rosemurgy's The Stranger Manual were chick lit, I might tire of such a character. One suspects that Peach's unhappiness in love results from her perception of this concept:
"...that's what love is, after all, isn't it?
The nagging, guilty feeling you get after
you wish someone were dead."
("Miss Peach Visits Her Ex-Boyfriends in the Hospital" 29)
or
"Love is a fancy name / for giving someone without fangs the power to kill you" ("Miss Peach Gets Lucky 76)
One suspects that Miss Peach destroys her relationships as much as they destroy her. Here's a short poem that sums up her peachy personality:
"Miss Peach by the Sea
In a world of dubious oysters,
Miss Peach is not the bucket you lurch toward
not the team of medics who graze you
like wings and carry only needles that go in, like true love,
on the first try. She might be the sand
grinding against your teeth.
She might be the smell on your fingers
no amount of lemon can clean.
All we know for certain is that
she's not what made you sick,
not what almost killed you,
but she is what first made you think
something was going to." (77)
In real life, I suspect, that Miss Peach would be tiresome. But on the page, I find her delightful. Or, maybe, it's Rosemurgy's voice that so entices. I don't really need to "like" a character in order to "like" her representation.
On the book's cover, Miss Peach is figured as headless. In "Doctor (3): Miss Peach is Referred to the Orthopedic Unit," the character is described as a "[p]atient present[ing] with an alternating overabundance / and absence of bones." She "complains of electric knee caps / and says she can prove she's female" (54). In the final line of the poem, the doctor notes that the patient's face is "currently missing" (55).
Whether the reader identifies with Miss Peach--or identifies her with someone s/he knows, s/he can't help believing in the character's verisimilitude...which is really strange when Miss Peach seems a cross between a paper doll and the gingerbread (wo)man:
"She's crumpled where she's supposed to be unfolded..."
("Neighbor: Miss Peach's Body Didn't Turn Out Right" 7).
"Patient claims to be twelve years old
and is 3'4", biscuit-shaped, powdery,
but incredibly adept at climbing trees." (54)
I'm not sure if I should be acknowledging spoilers in this work of narrative poetry as the text really doesn't qualify as verse novella. I don't believe I'm spoiling plot revelations. Instead of operating as linear story, these poems seem to conjure a life by approaching character from various oblique trajectories, frequently through others' perspectives. Miss Peach is neighbor, student, ex-girlfriend, patient, provocateur.
I love the way Rosemurgy keeps feinting around her subject until I'm almost as off-kilter as the Peach herself.
Excerpt 1:
"She explains to several generations
of Princess-Cruise addicts behind the makeup counter that she's looking for a lip color
she can call Too Long in the Pool, or perhaps Why Did I Eat That? Her face is bound
to keep popping up here and there, underneath her lover and behind
the things she says. Beauty is for maple trees. When people look at her,
Miss Peach wants each of them to worry: wait a second, did I just beat her up?" (5)
(from "Miss Peach Goes Shopping")
Excerpt 2:
"Love isn't above starting this way:
you can drop me from a second-story window
if you pin me against it first....
Sure, I'm sick of the source of great fire
always being the sun. A few nights ago he peeled off of me
as if he were my own skin and he didn't want the job." (36)
(from "Miss Peach: The College Years")
Peaches can be bruised. Yes.
D.H. Lawrence compared this fruit to female genitalia in one of those novels that was supposed by some to empower by acknowledging the very existence of feminine desire.
The dominant character in Catie Rosemurgy's second collection isn't exactly a feminist. She can't really trust any female person, especially herself: " I watch myself being kind sometimes / and I think, is there nothing you won't fake?" (38). No wonder her relationships are so unsatisfactory.
If Rosemurgy's The Stranger Manual were chick lit, I might tire of such a character. One suspects that Peach's unhappiness in love results from her perception of this concept:
"...that's what love is, after all, isn't it?
The nagging, guilty feeling you get after
you wish someone were dead."
("Miss Peach Visits Her Ex-Boyfriends in the Hospital" 29)
or
"Love is a fancy name / for giving someone without fangs the power to kill you" ("Miss Peach Gets Lucky 76)
One suspects that Miss Peach destroys her relationships as much as they destroy her. Here's a short poem that sums up her peachy personality:
"Miss Peach by the Sea
In a world of dubious oysters,
Miss Peach is not the bucket you lurch toward
not the team of medics who graze you
like wings and carry only needles that go in, like true love,
on the first try. She might be the sand
grinding against your teeth.
She might be the smell on your fingers
no amount of lemon can clean.
All we know for certain is that
she's not what made you sick,
not what almost killed you,
but she is what first made you think
something was going to." (77)
In real life, I suspect, that Miss Peach would be tiresome. But on the page, I find her delightful. Or, maybe, it's Rosemurgy's voice that so entices. I don't really need to "like" a character in order to "like" her representation.
On the book's cover, Miss Peach is figured as headless. In "Doctor (3): Miss Peach is Referred to the Orthopedic Unit," the character is described as a "[p]atient present[ing] with an alternating overabundance / and absence of bones." She "complains of electric knee caps / and says she can prove she's female" (54). In the final line of the poem, the doctor notes that the patient's face is "currently missing" (55).
Whether the reader identifies with Miss Peach--or identifies her with someone s/he knows, s/he can't help believing in the character's verisimilitude...which is really strange when Miss Peach seems a cross between a paper doll and the gingerbread (wo)man:
"She's crumpled where she's supposed to be unfolded..."
("Neighbor: Miss Peach's Body Didn't Turn Out Right" 7).
"Patient claims to be twelve years old
and is 3'4", biscuit-shaped, powdery,
but incredibly adept at climbing trees." (54)
I'm not sure if I should be acknowledging spoilers in this work of narrative poetry as the text really doesn't qualify as verse novella. I don't believe I'm spoiling plot revelations. Instead of operating as linear story, these poems seem to conjure a life by approaching character from various oblique trajectories, frequently through others' perspectives. Miss Peach is neighbor, student, ex-girlfriend, patient, provocateur.
I love the way Rosemurgy keeps feinting around her subject until I'm almost as off-kilter as the Peach herself.
May 10, 2010
I was, as the stars suggest, pretty ecstatic about this book. It's just one of those that falls into my sweet spot, where all kinds of things that delight and surprise me come together.
The conceit of this book length collection of poems is that there is a woman, Mrs. Peach, who is incredible ugly, and who lives in a small town where she doesn't quite fit in. All the poems, then, are fragments of Peach's experiences in the town, or the town's experience of her.
That said, this is about as far from Spoon River Anthology territory as you can imagine-- instead, that loose frame seems to be an organizing principle as strong as a black hole, one that pulls together poems of the most startling variety and subject matter; there are poems from the POV of Peach, but also poems from people in the town reflecting on Peach. There are poems from Peach imagining she is, I think we're supposed to draw this conclusion, Mick Jagger.
The poems are funny, well-observed, moving, and beautiful in their use of language. But most of all, and this is what I'm a sucker for, they are continually surprising-- it's like Rosemurgy has found this magic wand that lets her do everything at once, and it makes for a mind-blowingly enjoyable book.
*I want to cram a reference to Dream Songs in here, which is another obvious point-of-reference, or maybe -departure, but I'm not sure where it belongs.
The conceit of this book length collection of poems is that there is a woman, Mrs. Peach, who is incredible ugly, and who lives in a small town where she doesn't quite fit in. All the poems, then, are fragments of Peach's experiences in the town, or the town's experience of her.
That said, this is about as far from Spoon River Anthology territory as you can imagine-- instead, that loose frame seems to be an organizing principle as strong as a black hole, one that pulls together poems of the most startling variety and subject matter; there are poems from the POV of Peach, but also poems from people in the town reflecting on Peach. There are poems from Peach imagining she is, I think we're supposed to draw this conclusion, Mick Jagger.
The poems are funny, well-observed, moving, and beautiful in their use of language. But most of all, and this is what I'm a sucker for, they are continually surprising-- it's like Rosemurgy has found this magic wand that lets her do everything at once, and it makes for a mind-blowingly enjoyable book.
*I want to cram a reference to Dream Songs in here, which is another obvious point-of-reference, or maybe -departure, but I'm not sure where it belongs.
August 27, 2015
One of those anthologies that reminded me why I love to read poetry. Maybe I liked it so much because there's parts of Miss Peach I see in myself, or at least in experiences I've had. My favorite poems were of course the ones about relationships and love, which I guess you could argue were all of them? Whatever, here are my favorite lines:
Maybe one body is simply insufficient.
So they change their minds and decide
to stand by one another's side for years.
They bring flowers and carpet and children
into the act. They refuse to move, ever.
They act as if they've found the only hospitable
spot on earth. I love it when they do that.
---
Books were like tongues cut out of great men.
---
Because that's what love is, after all, isn't it?
The nagging guilty feeling you get after
you wish someone were dead.
---
When we love something, isn't it as if we have grown hands
especially to hold it? What have we ever touched
and not had to watch turn ugly
by the light of some sort of moon?
A book I will certainly return to many times.
Maybe one body is simply insufficient.
So they change their minds and decide
to stand by one another's side for years.
They bring flowers and carpet and children
into the act. They refuse to move, ever.
They act as if they've found the only hospitable
spot on earth. I love it when they do that.
---
Books were like tongues cut out of great men.
---
Because that's what love is, after all, isn't it?
The nagging guilty feeling you get after
you wish someone were dead.
---
When we love something, isn't it as if we have grown hands
especially to hold it? What have we ever touched
and not had to watch turn ugly
by the light of some sort of moon?
A book I will certainly return to many times.
September 1, 2011
Something of John Berryman's Henry from the Dream Songs comes through in the character of Miss Peach. But Miss Peach is by far creepier (in a good way), more grotesque, and absolutely huggable. Rosemurgy has a strong command of form and transforming images.
April 22, 2014
The use of titles in the collection is incredible. The persona, Miss Peach, functions to allow Rosemurgy to explore uncharted territory first hand. Very funny, truthful, and insightful.
October 9, 2018
Miss Peach is a feminist and ain't ashamed. This collection is searing and funny and well worth your time. Love Rosemurgy's unique voice and blend of the lyric and narrative.
August 18, 2010
I expect better from Greywolf.
September 11, 2016
I really liked the idea of it, and a few of the poems really struck me, but overall it just wasn't for me...
April 2, 2017
A little too abstract and absurd at times, but the language remains compelling and enchanting throughout. And there were many poems, or at least lines within poems, that I did really like a lot. So a solid 4 stars, definitely worth a read.
Displaying 1 - 13 of 13 reviews