To contrast, though, I've experimented with writing around some of the recent grief I've felt and I've had the opposite response:
my poems are filled with
wide open spaces and
I want to say here, again, publically, that I really enjoyed Richard Siken's Crush. It had that sort of horrific reality that Brian Teare cultivated in The Room In Which I Was Born coupled with a dense, filmic eroticism and a palpable neurosis. I loved the way many of the poems appeared on the page. I feel like I always say this when I read a book that revolutionizes me, but: it's been a long time since I've been so affected by a book of poems.
I recently finished reading Harryette Mullen's Sleeping With the Dictionary, which I generally enjoyed. Some of the long list poems got tedious to me, but I sense that hearing them read out loud would make them more manageable. While reading the Mullen I was concurrently reading Matthea Harvey's Sad Little Breathing Machine.
Both books employ a sort of linguistic playfulness, but Mullen's to me seems more successful. I enjoy Harvey's poems, but I feel like they don't necessarily speak to me. Harvey's poems seem to be more about what they veil rather than what they reveal, while Mullen is employing language in a way that reveals what is cloaked. I don't mean to diametrically oppose them, but I don't think they're "opposites" (whatever that means), but there does seem to be both a great affinity and a wide divide between them.
Harvey's poems have a sort of childlike innocence about them, a misreading of the world. Mullen's work is informed by politics, justice, and the sense that language is not our escape but our chain-link fence.