Poems have a lovely way of inviting you into different lives, imaginations, spiritual worlds. I really like being in Laurie Byro’s world, the world so richly present in her book Luna. Family poems dominate part of the book: a departed brother intuited in the spirit of a young deer, a father frying potatoes, memories of a wayward mother. A moment shared between father and daughter evokes a time “when we could make all things understood ... / when the silence / and almost-forgotten peace would start trembling in.” Many of Laurie Byro’s poems gesture to such moments—and, through artistry and Byro’s welcome, original take on the world, she creates them.
John Timpane, Poet and Media Writer / Editor at the Philadelphia Inquirer
For years I have read and studied Ms. Byro’s work and with the passage of time I am left deeper in the cobbles of her streets, in a timeless place laden with astonishing lines. There are no headlights in Eden, turning the corner toward wherever Ms. Byro bids us. We are the lazy strain of lost shells, the deep green and copper rust of the body and the serpent who becomes troubadour. We are where we want to be, displaced travelers moving through time, living in the myth Ms. Byro creates and draws from, living in the alleys with pimps and angels. In fact, I might liken Luna to a medieval playhouse bulging with intrigues, cabals and luscious turns of wit. Who but Ms. Byro might dare a callipygian ode, mourning the passing of a pert buttocks. These works mirror our times, our temptations and desires. We suckle them to our breasts, crush rocks into diamonds along the Milky Way. It’s time for the audience’s ovation. Prospero bids us to applaud and we do.
Lois P. Jones, Poet and Host of “Poet’s Café” (KPFK, Los Angeles 90.7 fm), Poetry Editor at Kyoto Journal and interviewer at American Microreviews & Interviews
"synopsis" may belong to another edition of this title.