These poems are non-verbal, gestural, asemic -- and deaf. They can't hear me, neither can they hear you. Yet they call themselves poems --- what is a poem? Who decides? When the hand knows what it's doing, is there a problem?
A Deaf poem by Rosaire Appel sounded promising. I expected layers, emotion, something to sit with and return to. Instead, the entire book felt like one long inhale that never turned into a full breath. Just a single stanza carrying the weight of the whole thing. For that price, I wanted more substance, more journey, more reason to linger. This one left me feeling like I bought the cover and not much else.
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