The latest chapbook of Nathaniel S. Rounds demands time, but to reap the rewards of his art on both a grand and miniscule scale...ah, well that is pleasure. -Christine Jessica Margaret Reilly More
The latest chapbook of Nathaniel S. Rounds demands time, but to reap the rewards of his art on both a grand and miniscule scale...ah, well that is pleasure. His work succeeds not just on different levels, but in different layers all pulsing through the other. He travels from the oddly specific to the universal, the mundane to the spiritual, with such force I feel like I, as the reader, am being shot out of a gun. This is not to say that I feel as though I'm being hand-held or like there is no control in his work. He retains an excellent flair for sound and imagery with lines like "I tapped into a lonely wallflower/All pretty and educated in things clerical." His voice is so clearly present in all of the poems, whispering in my ear, letting me peer into the minutiae of his world with just a non-judgmental monocle and my senses: "Wow/Thierry Schevchenko/I mean there are few names like it/Inscribed upon American Tourister Tiara luggage sets from 1968. /And the man is still around somewhere/Minus his luggage/Maybe he still has some lady weave his back hair/Into an exotic cape."
The majority of the book maintains its clean and hilarious nature with simple but brilliant language. Lines like "The blender spoke in a disdainful teen girl voice/That English-speaking undergrads use/The one who spits out a sentence" are rollicking, but have heart.