I Have Not Been Able To Get Through To Everyone

The shadows on the wall - resurrecting poetry in Plato’s cave. This work is an auspicious debut from a trailblazing new poet. Flickering philosophies and ancient lights meet the grey bustle of the globalised world in Anna Moschovakis’ astonishing debut. The glut of modern diseases - psychological, endemic, born in and of the thing that they infect - stalk city streets figured as old gods: appearing in brief sideways glances, captured smokelike in the frame of some glass office building, vanishing between wailing buses on which they scrawl their name. It is a single legend - Feast Day - in the windshield of a car halts spectres in their tracks. Moschovakis populates her cities with mythic shades. Faceless and blunt, they become ideals - forms flickering on the wall of the glass-and-concrete cave, the office-bank-and-tenement halls shining in streets flushed with taxis, prescribed rotes of love and contact performed in everyman parties and formless apartments. This is poetry fit to align itself with Allen Ginsberg. Something new from something old - and in the carefully constructed universality of her tone, something for everyone.