The poems in Couchgrass are set alight by the question mark. In this sense, the book writes and unwrites itself in fiery, sensual, and inventive language. All is surging, hushed, volatile: violently human.
Like poetry itself, couchgrass spreads everywhere despite one's best efforts to eradicate it. Invasive, rhizomic, a denizen of cracks and crannies, couchgrass also has antibiotic properties. Like couchgrass, Dominique Hecq's latest book will establish its little fibrous roots even in the mind's most unpropitious earth.
In Couchgrass, Dominique Hecq breaks through the surfaces of the everyday to reach the garden of tangled interconnections in which we find our life roots. She connects with that 'gigantic taproot' that flows through our veins, and it is an experience that leaves us 'at a loss, all flushed, wide-eyed.' Challenging closed-down ways of seeing the world, she celebrates a mystery that is tactile 'grounded in such things as wood and childbirth' but also infinite and 'nameless'. Yet how it calls to be named. This rich book is born from that fertile space: 'in the heat of words spreading / like couchgrass after summer rains'.