Jenny Yang Cropp reminds us, in exact and lyrical language, that we are matter, “that there are no new particles,” that “we fall by force, attraction, gravity.” Her poems explore grief, forgiveness, separation, acceptance, and the fierce dynamics of relationship. They illumine what matters most.
Candace Black, author of The Volunteer
The deceptively quiet surfaces and patient, elegant lines in Jenny Yang Cropp’s Hanging the Moon reveal, at their heart, a fierce and unwavering gaze—an aperture that explores interior microcosms and organically resituates them within a universal music writ infinitely large. In these poems, like the time-lapse photographic techniques in Koyaanisquatsi, there is both stillness and speed, serenity and chaos, smallness and immensity. Violence and grief oftentimes form the core of these emotionally resonant poems—explosions, collisions, black holes—yet Cropp movingly and repeatedly reminds us that these volatilities exist alongside the loveliness of spinning stars and a cosmos that, pollen-like, inevitably expands: “a moving, breathing thing, a fluctuation / in and out of possibility.”
Lee Ann Roripaugh, author of On the Cusp of a Dangerous Year
Hanging the Moon // Jenny Yang Cropp
About the Author
Jenny Yang Cropp grew up in Lawton, Oklahoma. Her poems have appeared or are forthcoming in Boxcar Poetry Review, Superstition Review, Hayden's Ferry Review, Eclipse, and others. She received her MFA from Minnesota State University-Mankato and is currently working on a PhD in creative writing at University of South Dakota.