Praise for “Trailer Trash”
Trailer Trash is distinctly July’s story — a harrowing tale of grief, childhood, and loss. But it’s also about America, God, and poverty; the collection nimbly toggles, with the grace of a feral cat, between the “I” and the Universal. “You want your readers to be asking questions,” July told me.
And we are. The Ravages of American Poverty, The Establishment.
All That Trash & Filth: Interview With July Westhale, Sexy Grammar.
Poetry is an art form that is often considered inaccessible, canonical, academic. While it can be all of those things, it can also be hymnal—a kind of homage to the sorts of people whose stories don’t get written and remembered in any other way. A radical archive.
Review of Trailer Trash, by Foreword Reviews
July Westhale’s poetry seems accompanied with a tuning fork’s pitch, a heightened, pressing, weaponized immediacy. Whatever she faced to earn that ability would have killed a lesser mortal, we can be sure.
Trailer Trash by July Westhale, Booklist
Elsewhere, Westhale weaves love and thrilling triumph into each word; time is something to “braid . . . / into your hair,” and crickets—“they sing, never be ashamed.” In “Poem in Which I Rewrite History,” Westhale writes, “I meant to shake a psalm from your skin.” Indeed, throughout this entire haunting, biting, breathtakingly beautiful collection, she shakes a psalm from every page
A Conversation with poet July Westhale, Kenyon Review
For Westhale, this opening up is the necessary danger of writing and reading poems. Poetry allows a space for empathy in a way that other genres like journalism can’t always offer, but poetry is often seen as inaccessible to the masses.
July Westhale’s Poems are Dazzlers, Diriye Osman.
Not a single word is wasted and yet the subtext is dense, demonstrating the ways in which our twin selves offer contradistinctive approaches to the world: self-nurture interlocked with self-detonation, self-consideration versus self-cruelty.
2016 Kore Press First Book Award Judge, Robin Coste Lewis:
“When I read the title of this collection, I’ll admit it: I didn’t want to read it. I thought––obnoxiously––that I knew what I would find before turning its first page: cute, pink poems about poverty––which is to say, a style of writing I wanted to avoid completely. I was wholly unprepared for the exceptional skill and aesthetic courage I encountered when I opened the book, skill and courage that remained from the first line to the last. It is so much easier to perform rather than to be honest. You can offer the world a mask, then walk away, pretending to be somewhere, someone. This is especially true when one is poor, or a woman. But from beginning to end, these poems about both are neither cute, nor nice. They are strong, quiet, new, unapologetic, even ruthless in their refusal to play any role, including “girl” or “poor.” Which is to say, July Westhale constantly creates wholly unfamiliar constructions that run back and forth between that pole of both exquisite and horrifying with courageous agility. Evoking the language of myth, history, sociology, Westhale takes a sign as overused as “trailer trash” and utterly destroys that myth (or is it nightmare?) completely. Furthermore, she refuses to look away from the true complexity of gender and poverty, or more specifically, what it actually means to grow up both poor and girl. It isn’t new––class analysis––of course not. Indeed, one could argue that class is precisely what women within patriarchy write. What else could we write, century after century, when it took us so long to own property or even vote? That’s called a tradition. But what’s exciting for me is I know this collection, “Trailer Trash,” will take its rightful place within this exquisite history. What’s even more thrilling, however, is the awareness that this voice is completely distinct, these narratives, this terrain belong only to the narrators who tell them. And that’s something that one can never force, nor fake. Indeed, perhaps the greatest gifts of this collection is that it does not run from the complexities of class and gender, nor the Athenian feat of locating unpretentious, deeply psychological lyric to render them.”
—Robin Coste Lewis, National Book Award winner for Voyage of the Sable Venus.