{"product_id":"the-surveyors-isbn-9781524732660","title":"The Surveyors","description":"\u003cb\u003eA beautiful new collection from Mary Jo Salter brings us poems of puzzlement and acceptance in the face of life's surprises.\u003c\/b\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"I'm still alive and now I'm in Bratislava,\" says the speaker of one of Salter's poems, as she travels with her unlikely late-in-life love, a military man. She never expected to be here, to know someone like him, to be parted from her previous life; how did it happen? Time is hurtling, but these poems try to slow it down to examine its curious by-products--the prints of Dürer, an Afghan carpet, photographs of people we've lost. The title poem, a crown of sonnets, takes up key moments in the poet's past, the quirky advent of poetic inspiration, and the seemingly sci-fi future of the universe. Throughout, in a tone of ironic wonderment, placing rich new love poems alongside some inevitable poems of leavetaking, Salter invites the reader to weigh and ponder the way things have turned out--for herself, for all of us--in this new century, and perhaps to conclude, as she does, \"That's funny . . . \"“A capacious and ambitious collection . . . Salter’s formal prowess is on display, as is her rueful wisdom, her vivid eye and memory for detail, and her ability to collapse time.” \u003cb\u003e—Rachel Hadas, \u003ci\u003eLos Angeles Review of Books\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Unforgettable . . . These are poems of a woman passionately living her life . . . At once erudite and spontaneous, serious and lighthearted.” \u003cb\u003e—Laverne Firth, \u003ci\u003eNew York Journal of Books\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Smart, quirky, and offbeat . . . A lively mix of wit and imagination . . . In \u003ci\u003eThe Surveyors,\u003c\/i\u003e [Salter] showcases her impeccable form, her lines as tight and sharp as rapiers . . . A poetry collection to cherish.” \u003cb\u003e—Scott Neuffer, \u003ci\u003eShelf Awareness\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Essential not only for Salter’s fans but for readers of poetry in general . . . Salter has been working with quiet excellence as a poet since the publication of her first collection in 1985. For all that, she wears her knowledge lightly . . . She is superbly skilled in the old appurtenances of meter and rhyme, deploying coincidences of rhythm and sound that only rereading discloses—but her ease extends to her freer lyric style as well . . . Salter provides sane and long-lasting rewards. \u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eLibrary Journal\u003c\/i\u003e (starred review)\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cb\u003eMARY JO SALTER\u003c\/b\u003e was born in Grand Rapids, Michigan. She was educated at Harvard and Cambridge and taught at Mount Holyoke College for many years. She also served as poetry editor of \u003ci\u003eThe New Republic\u003c\/i\u003e. In addition to her seven previous poetry collections, she is the author of a children's book, \u003ci\u003eThe Moon Comes Home\u003c\/i\u003e, and a coeditor of \u003ci\u003eThe Norton Anthology of Poetry\u003c\/i\u003e. She is Andrew W. Mellon Professor in The Writing Seminars at Johns Hopkins University and lives in Baltimore.I\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eYield\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThat’s what the sign said\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ebelow my window.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI’d step out of bed\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eto look down on the fork\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ethe y had made\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ein the word and the road.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eyield was destined\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003efor a field of yellow,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ebut scrambled like eggs\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003einto something like daily.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWas firm, was an order,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ebut just meant consider.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAnd consider I did.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI stared at the sign\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ethat was so little needed:\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eto stay or to go?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThat was for others,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003emy parents, to know.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe might leave someday.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe might stay behind.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI was only one side\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eof the triangle.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI’d slip back in bed,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eback into my own mind,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eand more letters wanting\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eto play came to me\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ealone to untangle.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBratislava\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSo I’m still alive and now I’m in Bratislava.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThat’s funny. I hadn’t expected to be alive.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eA sign in italics nudges us at the station:\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHave an amazing time in Bratislava!\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThat’s funny: a straight-faced wish, offered in English\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eand then Slovakian, posted above a trash can\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ethat stands like the only monument in town.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWe’ve heard there’s a castle, though. We need a tram.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWe take one, and it heads in the wrong direction.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eA pretty girl, cheerful and blond, straightens us out,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eand we get on and off a bus at the proper stops.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThat’s funny. Already a right place and a wrong one\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eto be in Bratislava, and I am among\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ethe people who sort of get this, at least at the moment\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI happen to occupy, within a vacation\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ein Vienna with a day trip to Bratislava.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThat’s funny. I’d assumed my travel companion\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ethrough life would be my husband, even if \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI’d gone to Bratislava, which I hadn’t thought of\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003elong enough to think I would or wouldn’t.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe spanking white castle, standing high on a hill\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ewe climb on foot, swigging our bottles of Coke,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003edates to the year 800 or so, but burned\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003edown to the ground, which tends, as we know, to happen,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eand was reconceived in one of the worst times of all,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ethe 1950s, under Soviet rule.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThat’s funny. Atop embarrassing pillars, knights\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ein plaster armor gaze up at the sky\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003etriumphantly, although what for is forgotten,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eand the sunlight they eclipse in silhouette\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eis all the sillier on those phallic cannons\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ebetween their legs, with three or four cannonballs.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMore cannonballs per man. That’s human history\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ein a nutshell. Bullies unsated with all they’ve got\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eand below, the blindsided masses. That’s what it is.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAnd yet I’m happy, now, with my companion—\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ehe likes me, I like him. He has his own backstory\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eof bleak encampments, battles lost, and sorrows\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ebest not spoken of in Bratislava\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003elest we spoil our day, which so far is duly amazing.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI admire his dignity. Dignity is funny.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eEverything’s funny now, which we hadn’t expected\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eto happen, either of us, after what happened.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWe’re still alive and now we’re in Bratislava.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ePastry Level\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI was gazing out back\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eat the lemon-gold\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003esun on the cream-colored painted brick\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eof the new house.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e(New again, I mean.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI’ve told you the story—\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ethat it was finished just a few\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003emonths shy of the war;\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ethat young families \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003emoved in and out before a widow \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ewho couldn’t care for it anymore\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003esigned it over to me,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ea single buyer lately\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003epossessed by self-\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003epossession.) This morning\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eat my writing table, looking\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eoutward for a word,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ein that sun-glaze on the wall\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI saw again a baker’s shelf\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003etwenty years ago in Paris.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eYou were there, of course.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe average American\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003efour-year-old girl\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003estands at forty inches tall,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eif you can get her \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eto stand still.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWhen you were four,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ein those ruffled French dresses\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI couldn’t help spending\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ea fortune on,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eyou couldn’t be kept away\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003efrom patisserie\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eafter patisserie;\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eyou guided me by the hand\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eto every window display\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ethat we might inspect another batch \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eof little pleated \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003etartes au citron,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eglistening neatly\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eat the level of your eye.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eRemember when\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eyou, your sister, \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eyour father and I\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eall spoke the same language?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBecause of you\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ewe invented a phrase—\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“pastry level”—\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eto indicate the height of any \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003efour-year-old on the street . . .\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIt seemed to go without saying\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ewe’d be strolling together\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eall the rest of our days.","brand":"Knopf","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":46300805333221,"sku":"NP9781524732660","price":27.0,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9781524732660.jpg?v=1767741744","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/products\/the-surveyors-isbn-9781524732660","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}