Emily Dickinson. Robert Frost. Allen Ginsberg. These are famous poets (not an oxymoron, for better or worse — I’ll leave that to the experts). But no one seems to have heard of Anne Carson.

And why should they have? After all, she’s notoriously — okay, maybe that’s stretching a bit, but at the very least, she’s, shall we say, notably reticent about her personal life. Even in fits of spontaneous Googling, I’ll catch the leak on you, Carson!, the only readily available info out there seems to be that she lives in Canada and does a lot of translation, plus some poetry.

What kind of poetry? The pretentious kind, according to critic James Pollock.

Well, that’s quaint, because it also happens to be the kind of poetry that appeals to someone — that’s me, by the way — more likely to make fun of poetry than take it seriously.

I recently read her book The Beauty of the Husband: A Fictional Essay in 29 Tangos. I have to concede — not the most accessible title. But non-accessible doesn’t have to be synonymous with non-pretentious, and in Carson’s case, it isn’t. It’s intelligent; it’s challenging; it isn’t your chapbook of poetry clichés, you won’t find any rants about consumerism or bitter comparisons between losing one’s virginity and dying animals. It tracks the endless decline of a doomed marriage between two artists, even beyond their divorce.

One of my favorite bits, from “II. BUT A DEDICATION IS ONLY FELICITOUS IF PERFORMED BEFORE WITNESSES — IT IS AN ESSENTIALLY PUBLIC SURRENDER LIKE THAT OF STANDARDS OF BATTLE”:

“He seemed happy. You’re like Venice he said beautifully.
Early next day
I wrote a short talk (“On Defloration”) which he stole and had published
in a small quarterly magazine.
Overall this was a characteristic interaction between us.
Or should I say ideal.
Neither of us had ever seen Venice.”

The poem in its entirety can be read here.