In David Rivard's poetry, the unconscious forces of the imagination intersect with life's everyday details. His stylistically innovative poems reflect the discovery that the world teems with "otherness", freshness, and surprise. Lucky Slaves: In the city, meanwhile,/the tenants come home,/the subletters & co-op owners,/dwellers beneath/slate mansard roofs & heating ducts,/they arrive one/by one, that being their way,/one by hopeless/unimportant/hopeful one -- slaves --/but luck slaves,/like the last of those last few Israelites,/they who wandered sighing & distracted/over a path/the Lord of the parted Red Sea had made./Soon the suppers/of America/will start to be prepared./First the paring of onions,/and then the frying./On the forehead of the city the sun/is setting, the brow/in flames, the brain doing a cool/coppery burn. But the floor/beneath our feet remains/firm. It will not/be turned/to ash.

I have always admired David Rivard's way of looking at the world around him as a way of illuminating the "big questions" like who are we and where are we going. He observes life from a different angle, noticing the small gestures and odd moments that make us human. In Bewitched Playground Rivard's insights are there, but I was also struck by the heart in these new poems. Rivard writes of a daughter being born and I can only wonder if that event has helped shape the playfulness of some of these poems. His observations are keen and the voice of these poems is that of someone about to tell you a great story