Lawrence Raab has long been one of American poetry’s most authentic, most perfectly modulated voices. Yet in these new poems, he boldly risks unguarded measures and urgent sounds. This is a book of summonings: into the dark wood; into the night music which might be, if memory proves to be something other than an abyss, the frontier of eternity. There are supernal tensions on every page here, and everywhere, just at the horizon, unprecedented daybreak.
—Donald Revell
The poems in Lawrence Raab’s April at the Ruins are rooted in the acknowledgment that the past we live with is in good part dream and fairy tale, that our present seems curiously frail and ephemeral, and that life viewed in retrospect appears by turns accidental and inevitable. By refusing to reach easy solutions, by a willingness to find a home in uncertainty and doubt, the poems achieve an integrity that is bracing and deeply moving.
—Carl Dennis
Lawrence Raab is a genuinely dark philosophical poet, a lifelong and expert student of lucid dreaming and paradox— the sensation of waking up to the fact of being asleep. His poems lead you into, then trap you, in strange worlds, boxes constructed of story, logic, and aphorism, which are then revealed to be exactly like life itself.
—Tony Hoagland