"Barbara Hamby is an extraordinary discovery! A poet of compassion and elegance, she is a poet whose debut in Delirium promises a rich (and enriching) lifelong project."—Cynthia Macdonald

Barbara Hamby makes her poems out of jokes, Italian phrases, quotes from saints and philosophers, references to meals eaten and wines drunk.

In a fluid, compelling voice, she sets a stage, peoples it with real and imagined characters, spins them into dizzying motion, and then makes everything disappear as with a wave of a conjurer's wand, leaving the reader to wonder, "Did that happen, or did I dream it?"

One leaves her poetry the way one leaves a dark theater on a July afternoon, convinced that the ordinary passions really won't do—they need to be larger, as large as they are in these poems.

Severn Falls Asleep

Death crawls closer
on nights like these,
the chill creeps in
and hangs on the walls
like curtains.
The fire dies,
the candle is eaten
by its weak fluttering flame.
My eyes close.
I have sat up so many nights
with him
they fall together
into one long stream
of darkness that flows
through my veins,
rattles in my ears
as his breath rattles
in his chest,
like a child's toy
but darker
and more slowly.