With their extravagant musicality, Triplett鈥檚 poems explore the thinning lines between responsibility and complicity, the tangled 鈥渟upply chain鈥 that unnervingly connects the domestic to the political, personal memory to social practice, and age-old familial discords to our new place in the anthropocentric world. Equal parts celebration and lament for the mechanisms we shape and are shaped by, these poetic acts reveal the poet as an entangled mediator among registers of public and private, intimate and historical, voicings. Here we traffic in the blessings and burdens of the human will to shape a world. What鈥檚 more, as we follow these linked enchainings of the deeply en-worlded citizen, we reawaken to the central paradox of our time, the need to refuse easy answers, to stay open, trilling, between these necessary notes of critique and of compassion.
鈥淧imone Triplett鈥檚 Supply Chain traces the imperatives of indentiture鈥斺榮upply,鈥 here, serving as both modifier and verb of command鈥攆rom global market forces to the psychological farce of self-regulation. Few writers investigate the anthemic inversions of our collective syntax with such ferocity and nuance. 鈥楳y grammar,鈥 sings this poet, hand over her reader鈥檚 heart, 鈥榯is of thee.鈥欌濃 Srikanth Reddy, author, Voyager
鈥淥f the poets I admire, I can think of no other who dwells as comfortably inside language as Pimone Triplett. As such, Supply Chain鈥攍ike her previous volumes鈥攆inds her gloriously moving between fixed and subtle shifts of meanings, between what鈥檚 known and what can only be discovered through such jubilant lyricism. And yet, her poems are not empty concerts; they are too thematically urgent and charmingly mature in their haunting range of concerns. From the nature of human capital in our modern age to the cultural inheritance of a son, here is a poet who unapologetically showcases the virtues of a complex, demanding art to possess that which haunts the periphery of our imaginations while she simply has fun with words.鈥濃擬ajor Jackson
鈥淭o All the Houseplants I Have Killed鈥
Paper-chapped, heavy fall frost not鈥
banked on. Swerved out the rockery, a brittle
residuum. Hebe, e pluribus unum, liking
brights and light shade, moderate water,鈥
no wet feet. I bring the thing in only鈥
to watch it fail, some second impulse鈥
scraping the land, nakedest, to stress.鈥
Open, you lavender-blue cluster, what鈥檚 left鈥
of your busy luck. What eco of echoes that
hollows this hearing is: arrest me, item,鈥
or keep your place. Also, the mind, long鈥
enough overlooked, seems less than to leave
your copper burnt curls snagged past the saying.
Mister, bloom where you are: off the box.
