Carl Phillips' collection of poems is a tribute to the fluid connection between memory and forgetting. The ways in which memory can be a blessing and a curse, that forgetting can be a curse and a blessing. The natural setting in so many of these works remind us that memory, loss, love, time, failure, longing are all as a part of the world just as much as we are. A beautiful and insightful collection, as I've come to expect from Phillips. He has yet to disappoint and it's hard to imagine that he ever will.

Many thanks to FSG, and NetGalley for the complimentary copy in exchange for an honest review.

Scattered Snows, to the North by Carl Phillips is a collection filled with an autumn sensation, even if the poems themselves are set elsewhen, with images of loss and dusk, snow of course, passing of time and love, deterioration of memory, mortality, and yes, actual autumn. The poems often depict the natural world, trees are a constant presence, but also water and weather. As present as the outer world is, though, it’s the inner world that remains the focus throughout.

How you like your poetry will determine your response here. If you like musicality, you might be out of luck, as Phillips doesn’t really call attention to the sound quality of the language, as least not very often. Now and then you get lines like “And as usual, early summer seems already to hold, inside it/the split fruit of late fall, those afternoons whose/diminished music we’ll soon enough”, with the long “u” sound running through “usual-fruit-whose-music-soon.” But those moments are relatively rare (to be clear, that is subtle musicality more often, just not the “hits you clearly” type of assonance, consonance, rhyme).

Similarly, those who like their poem’s meanings to be overtly laid out or nearly tied up in a clear epiphany at the end might be a bit disappointed. I don’t want to say the poems are opaque, because I don’t think they are, and I know that description would scare lots of casual poetry readers (my category) off. So not opaque but say more “open to multiple readings”. Or just “open” in that the poems often don’t close themselves down at the end. I confess I Sometimes wanted to feel a bit more on solid ground, but generally I enjoyed the openness of these pieces.

I also enjoyed that autumnal tone throughout, the “diminished music” from the lines above, the “dead under-branches of the trees”, the “mind done with signaling, letting its watch fires, one by one/go out, the renegade glamour of late fall.” There’s both a sharp impact in the lines themselves but also a cumulative effect as such images/concept pile one atop the other.

Generally, I found myself responding more strongly to particular lines or passages rather than to poems as a whole (though there are some standouts), but those are the moments, startled by language or juxtaposition or metaphor or where lines bounce off but then land again and linger for a long while, that I come to poetry for, so that’s not a big criticism from me. Before closing with a few examples of those passages, I’ll just say that I strongly recommend this collection, as well as his compilation, which I read recently as well, and which offers up just what you want—a lot more Phillips.

Some favorite moments:
“Whatever the reasons are for the dead/under-branches of the trees that flourish here, that the dead persist/is enough for me, it’s enough.”

“Maybe what a river loves most/about the banks that hold it — that appear to hold it —/is their willingness or resignation to being/mere context for the river’s progress … the way rivers tend to, stands as proof that reliability doesn’t’' have to mean steadfast.”

“I almost believe in the self that’s just/an imitation of a self I want others to believe in enough for me eventually/to believe it too”

“Why not call it lover —/each gesture — if it does love’s work?”

“for omens/also need sleep; indeed, the best ones can sleep for years, uninterrupted”

“that familiarity/that, because it sometimes/includes loves, can/become confused with it,/though they remain/different animals”

In Scattered Snows, to the North: Poems by Carl Phillips I found myself in awe of the words of this brilliant poet. I had never heard of Carl Phillips before reading this short book of prose. "From attention to adoration/is a smallish distance, Nothing can ever/will ever/be the same, You can make the stars spell out anything if you stare long and hard enough/What part of of Didn't you wish for this aren't you getting,"...I thouroughly enjoyed every poem in this book.

I love the poetry of Carl Phillips and this collection was no exception! Each poem savoured and thoughtfully digested. Thank you!

The latest Carl Phillips really hit in Rockford, Illinois. At first, I was enjoying what felt like classic Phillips and thinking it wasn’t my favorite of his, but the last third of the collection went to a higher plane. All poetry balances being in a moment with reflecting, but Phillips does it so perfectly they seem like the same thing. Loss is constructive, even beautiful. His poetry has animals in familiar, unspecific, semi-metaphoric woods. Ever since I heard Phillips give a brilliant lecture on “muscularity” (which has also been published online), I associate him with that word. Here, human, animal, love, reflection, of course syntax—all exemplify muscularity. “Searchlights” is my favorite poem of the collection.

Scattered Snows from the North, the latest collection from Pulitzer Prize-winning poet, Carl Phillips, feels like a return to his work in Tether, Rock Harbor, and Silverchest. The sensuous touch, which made fewer appearances in recent collections, is back. Erotic memory is as beguiling and unreliable as all memory. “Vikings” is emblematic of the wrestling Phillips is doing with the concept of the past and aging. Questioning memory’s unreliability to where one questions the present, because as we experience it, now immediately slips into memory.

Both though-provoking and awe-inspiring. I hadn't read any of Carl Phillips work before, but I'm a big fan now and plan to read any and everything he's written.

One of those collections that will stick with you forever.

I highly highly recommend this to anyone who enjoys poetry or who appreciates a nuanced take on memory and its unreliability.

{Thank you to NetGalley, Carl Phillips, and publisher for the eARC in exchange for my honest review!}

Lovely. Brilliant turns of phrase and I loved the circuitous syntax, the way the thoughts are interrupted was really engaging.

Another beautiful collection from Carl Phillips. This one in particular feels polished, well-wrought, but not in a staid or boring way. I really enjoyed this one and will be recommending it to anyone who will listen.

Carl Phillips is a lovely writer, who has built an impressive career. These poems are also lovely, but I wonder about what it might have added to his oeuvre. It's a brief book, very focused, though I imagine more layers could have been added had there been more time to develop the work.

"What if memory's just the dead, flourishing differently / from how they flourished alive?"

it is my goal in life to read everything Phillips has ever written because every poem feels as if it holds a truth, a detail i need to be reminded of. no one writes about memory or grief in quite the same way, with gentle frankness and images that swirl around your thoughts for days to come.

This is my first collection of poetry by Carl Phillips, but it won't be my last. Phillips is a master with words and imagery from the first page. I love that this collection delved into memory and its fallibility, the human condition, and how those two things inextricably work together to build humanity generation after generation.

Some of the poetry construction could be a bit difficult for newer readers to follow, and I found I had to re-read several poems to make sure I was understanding what was being said, but it's a collection worth reading and re-visiting in years to come. Beautiful and profound, there are lines in these pages that I will carry with me forever.

This is the second collection of poetry by Carl Phillips that I've read (Pale Colors in a Tall Field was the other one) and I enjoyed this one a bit more. These poems are personal in surprising ways, highlighting some of the ways in which we fail to connect with one another, or cannot remember what we wish we could. One line that struck me, from "Searchlights" -

"when all we can really say, or maybe should, is This is
what feels true, mostly, when I think of it now,
..."

Thanks to NetGalley and Farrar, Strauss & Giroux for giving me a digital copy to review.

A small but definitely mighty collection of poems on memory and remembering

These are poems to take your time with and savour; I found myself lingering over certain lines, lines that will hit you more than once and make you say (out loud) ‘whoa’

“even your mistakes were delicate.”

i strongly believe that we can find a poetry book that speaks to us, where you can almost hear their voices without needing the audio, as the lines flow smoothly in your mind. rarely do i feel this connection with a poetry collection, and when i do, it instantly becomes a new favorite of mine. reading carl phillips’s poems resonated deeply with me, despite not experiencing the same situations. i couldn’t comprehend how these poems effortlessly flowed through me, as if they were reading me whole. indeed, it’s a privilege for me to have read this collection in advance, but also unfortunate that i couldn’t share more of it. however, each poem struck a chord with me, like an album without skips.

each poem reflects distinct feelings intertwining with each other. the title ‘scattered snow, to the north’ felt perfectly fitting for this collection because the poems seemed like abandoned pieces of words trying to find their way back to you. they’re cold, almost withered, yet full of longing. the incorporation of nature in each poem also felt natural and genius. it didn’t feel forced to sound overly metaphorical, and it evoked similar feelings to what mary oliver’s works have done for me (although i’ve only read a few of her works).

thank you fsg & netgalley for this e-arc!

This was my first time reading Carl Phillips and the entire time it felt as though I were in the room hearing him consider these words before etching them into the pages. The way he writes about love… and furthermore- loss and life after love is painfully reminiscent and heartbreakingly understandable.
Anyone who has loved and lost knows the emotions and cycles of questioning and remembering and wishing you could forget only to want to long for the memories again- will find company in this collection.

“I need you
The way astonishment,
Which is really just

The disruption of routine
Requires routine”
- Western Edge

“I keep my best to myself; my worst
Also. I think the truth
Lies elsewhere”
-Somewhere it’s still Summer

Thank you Carl Phillips, NetGalley, and Farrar, Straus and Giroux for the opportunity to read and review this collection

I received an advance copy via NetGalley.

This poetry book makes for a brief, contemplative read as Phillips addresses nature, the human condition, and a wide array of emotions. I hadn’t read him before now; while I cannot say that every poem resounded within my body like a plucked harp string, there were verses that made me gasp and whisper “Wow” to myself as I reread the lines as if I could absorb those select syllables of genius. A few of my favorites were:

"...how / forgiveness might look / in the face, say, if it had a face, and forgiveness / were real..."

"...The ospreys / slept in their nests, presumably: for omens / also need sleep; indeed, the best ones can sleep for / years, uninterrupted."

"... I could see my face, / tilted there, like a solar eclipse viewed indirectly, / which / is the proper way, in a basin of water..."

there is something about reading carl philips that makes me feel like i’m reading for the first time.

WESTERN EDGE

I need you
the way astonishment,
which is really just

the disruption of routine,
requires routine.
Isn't there

a shock, though —
a thrill—
to having done

what we had to?
Unequally, but
in earnest, we love

as we can,
he used to mumble,
not so much his

mouth moving,
more the words
themselves sort of

staggering around lost
inside it ... Now
show me

exactly what
you think being brave
is.

tysm to netgalley for this rockin arc.

Poetry is unknowable, and that unknowability and indefinability is what draws us to it, I think. Every time you read a poem, you read it and see it and hear it a little bit differently. This is particularly the case with Carl Phillips' multilayered poems in this collection. They merit slow, thoughtful readings and re-readings. I'll let the poet's words speak for themselves with a few short excerpts:

"Sunlight in Fog": - how the river, running always away / the way rivers tend to, stands as proof that reliability / doesn't have to mean steadfast
"Artillery": the thunderclouds had begun clambering over / the mountains like sluggish bears just done wintering
"Little Winter": If someone / dreams about you, does it keep you alive? - to which / the only good answer is, In the end, will it matter?
"Heroic Interval": Above him, a bewilderment / of black swans pulling their bodies across a band / of nightfall
"Searchlights": finding shape first, then meaning, the way smoke does

And particularly this passage from "If Grief is Mostly Private and Always Various":
As for the sea, where's that sound now, that the snow made
in black and white, falling into it, the snow like words from
a severed head held aloft, upside down, and shaken -

But my favorite poem in the book is "Yes", and it here is how it ends:
You can treat the past
like a piece of fine glass to see yourself
reflected in; or to see through.

Thank you to NetGalley and the publisher for providing this eARC for unbiased review. This review will be cross-posted to my social media accounts closer to the book release date.

*I received an ARC via Netgalley in exchange for an honest review. Thanks for the free poetry collection*

I liked "Scattered Snows, to the North" but while a lot of poems were nice, they did not really touch me if that makes sense. Poetry is deeply personal and maybe I was not in the right mood for it. Other poems connecting past to present, memory to fiction was quite well done. I should probably reread this one.

3 stars