In her expansive and exquisitely spun poem, “My God It’s Full of Stars,” Smith interposes cosmic stellar light with Hollywood film stars-the pictures captured by the Hubble Telescope with those of the silver screen Stan Kubrick’s 20 01 the films of Charlton Heston zombie movies-it is as if we are looking through the kind of telescope that uses mirrors. Slowly she pulls in, frame by frame, to the present, the near past, the life of her father, deceased, the neighbors, her lover taking the dog for a walk, until she is as near to a thing as can be, the life growing inside her-a world fantastic as Mars, “The room is red, like ourselves /on the inside.” Her poems traverse dark matter-the soul, god, cruelty-a journey lit by stars. Her collection begins at the end-of history and space, Earth and humanity-a sweeping panorama. Smith, takes us on a cinematic journey to the ends of the galaxy. In her third collection of poetry, Tracy K. It is as alien as one might suppose, Life On Mars, and yet there are familiarities-David Bowie, head cocked Universal Studios, prolific as ever.
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