Readers of new poetry have come to expect a certain amount of wonder in the work, a certain receptivity (here and there) to the non-rational, preternatural undercurrents which ordinarily reveal themselves to us with full force only every now and then. For some, poetry might even serve, in part, as a conservancy for that receptivity, a protected place for it to run free beyond the reach of all the paperwork and chatter. Rumored Animals is one such place. By turns ecstatic and grief-stricken, Quinn Latimer's poems-distinctive, audacious, elemental, and unyielding-render the world with all its strangenesses intact and vitality restored, asserting the legitimacy of another, more primal vision at odds with the agreed-upon, one where "mountains / surround us with their animal / prowl, throw back // their black capes / and are done." This is a thrilling, defiant, and heartening body of work. --TIMOTHY DONNELLY QUINN LATIMER was born in Venice, California, and educated at Sarah Lawrence College and Columbia University's School of the Arts in New York. Her poems have been featured in Boston Review, The Last Magazine, The Paris Review, and Prairie Schooner, among other journals, and have been nominated for a Pushcart Prize. Recordings or performances of her poems have also been included in exhibitions at Art Basel Miami Beach; New Jerseyy, Basel; Galerie J, Geneva; and Kunsthaus Glarus. Latimer lives in Basel, Switzerland, where she is a regular contributor to Artforum, Frieze, and numerous artist monographs and critical anthologies. Rumored Animals, which was awarded the 2010 American Poetry Journal Book Prize, is her first book. In her debut, Latimer draws on sources from contemporary photography and art--Diane Arbus, Francesca Woodman, Donald Judd--to develop a complex engagement with constructions of self and prevailing cultural determinations of the female and feminine. In rich, robust sounds and rhythms, the poet strives to recognize herself within surface and image ("silver mirrors of ice," "a water pale body miming my own"), attempts to identify with the object of an outside gaze, figured as the looming presence of a brutally defining camera, and a discomfort at the fraught relation between herself as body and represented sign. More often than not, illusory, elusive reflective surfaces prove dangerously isolating ("Blue mirrors/ of lakes linger like glittery apprentices.... In their reflection, I stumble...") while the poet's consciousness of being seen