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Edited by Jon Thompson
More than any American poet now, Joshua McKinney is devoted to origins. A conservator of first things, an enthusiast for those early syllables brooding upon the compass-rose of language, he counsels joy, and he calls forth colors from a breath of air. In our disconsolate republic, Small Sillion constitutes a miracle. These poems are true partisans. —Donald Revell
Joshua McKinney is a poet of keenest attunement. In Small Sillion he plows furrows in unattended, taken-for-granted scapes of land and mind to discover the wonder of "something/sacred something wholly/mundane." This poet’s tensile attention balances at the boundary of language and witness, grappling with the ways that language is incommensurate with experience. McKinney’s poetry nonetheless ventures farther, both sensuous and otherworldly: his is a lyricism "aware as the nerve current sang in its flesh" that tenderly, gracefully pursues fulfillment "without knowing the nature of what it points to." —Elizabeth Robinson
Its every line worked into shine by the poet’s meticulous ear, Joshua McKinney’s Small Sillion is devotion enacted: a vow to make the work of words matter, to make words into matter, by attending to the world with acute attention and tender care. Like the singular singing of Gerard Manley Hopkins, these meticulously sculpted poems attempt to render visible the invisible by enfleshing the word with "the phenomenon of pungent sound," limning the inscapes suggested by encounters with birds and trees and other emissaries of life outside of human language and consciousness. To truly encounter the otherness alive outside us and to write of it, to persist in such endeavors—these are acts whose faith is born of an unusual openness, the poet "aware as the nerve current sang in its flesh." How quickly the mundane opens out onto otherwise in these loving lyrics that bring "each creature//inside the soul//of our own flesh." —Brian Teare
In his luminous fourth collection, Joshua McKinney harvests the threads of his affection to loving fruition. Via poems indebted to the ground—that increasingly denuded and over ploughed place we call the earth--the poet tenderly graphs the region of our ultimate dispossession and somehow makes it feel like home. Both rooted and rootless, and always in the midst of what can be seen or sung, these poems seek "Something joyful, something woeful as the oldest sound. . . ." ¿Small Sillion is the Book of Psalms for the 21st century. —Claudia Keelan
