Reading Emily Dickinson in Icelandic (2013) | Kore Press

In these poems, Iceland is a landscape of translation, mistranslation, a setting of spectacular phenomena and profound sadness. Heisler seems to ask whether the act of translation is, in fact, the ultimate act of the poet, the one who steals with hope and desire, who makes lists, who rumbles at the perimeter of words like a traveler might push against the perimeter of a map – where inevitably the perimeter circles back to a re-translation of self. Here one finds translation of the lover, the book, the poet, the block of text, the home, the shelf, the wind, the bowl, the weight, then the collapse, of history and context. Eva Heisler writes poems to say that saying may always be imperfect, but a perfect failure of magnificent want.
– Samuel Ace, author, with Maureen Seaton, of Stealth

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Eva Heisler has written a remarkable book. . . [with] varying voices and identities which we as readers can experience in intriguing glimpses before we are taken “elsewhere.” “Elsewhere” is a place itself. . . The artist Willem de Kooning described himself as “a slipping glimpser.” And I feel we now have another in Eva Heisler. Expedient, and full of wonder.

– Michael Burkard, author of Lucky Coat Anywhere