The Hurting Kind
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- € 11,99
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- € 11,99
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An astonishing collection about interconnectedness—between the human and nonhuman, ancestors and ourselves—from National Book Critics Circle Award winner and National Book Award finalist Ada Limón.
“I have always been too sensitive, a weeper / from a long line of weepers,” writes Limón. “I am the hurting kind.” What does it mean to be the hurting kind? To be sensitive not only to the world’s pain and joys, but to the meanings that bend in the scrim between the natural world and the human world? To divine the relationships between us all? To perceive ourselves in other beings—and to know that those beings are resolutely their own, that they “do not / care to be seen as symbols”?
With Limón’s remarkable ability to trace thought, The Hurting Kind explores those questions—incorporating others’ stories and ways of knowing, making surprising turns, and always reaching a place of startling insight. These poems slip through the seasons, teeming with horses and kingfishers and the gleaming eyes of fish. And they honor parents, stepparents, and grandparents: the sacrifices made, the separate lives lived, the tendernesses extended to a hurting child; the abundance, in retrospect, of having two families.
Along the way, we glimpse loss. There are flashes of the pandemic, ghosts whose presence manifests in unexpected memories and the mysterious behavior of pets left behind. But The Hurting Kind is filled, above all, with connection and the delight of being in the world. “Slippery and waddle thieving my tomatoes still / green in the morning’s shade,” writes Limón of a groundhog in her garden, “she is doing what she can to survive.”
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The tender, arresting sixth collection from Limón (The Carrying) is an ode to the cycle of birth, death, and rebirth that characterizes the natural world. The work is divided into four sections (after the four seasons), and is frequently set in the poet's garden. In this Edenic location, Limón observes the flora and fauna, which can lead to personal revelations. In "Foaling Season," the speaker describes a pasture full of mares and their foals, which allows her to reflect on her decision not to have children. Limón's descriptions of animals are richly evocative; a groundhog is "a liquidity moving, all muscle and bristle... slippery and waddle-thieving my tomatoes." The title poem movingly pays homage to the poet's family and ancestors as she recalls how her grandparents told her "never/ to kill a California King, benevolent/ as they were, equanimous like earth or sky, not// toothy like the dog Chaco who barked/ at nearly every train whistle or roadrunner." In the "Summer" section, Limón contemplates cockroaches and spiderwort, then briefly recalls a trip to Argentina before declaring, "And now the world is gone. No more Buenos Aires or Santiago." Limón's crystalline language is a feast for the senses, bringing monumental significance to the minuscule and revealing life in every blade of grass.
