In her first new book of poetry since Jaguar of Sweet Laughter , poet and naturalist Diane Ackerman combines her deep understanding of the world with her immense passion for language to craft richly sensual poems that "honor all life/wherever and in whatever form/it may deal." Imbued with ravishing imagery, these exuberant and lyrical explorations of aging, longing, and death demonstrate Ackerman's full engagement with every aspect of life's process. Ackerman muses on the confines of therapy sessions, where she intersects "twice a week/in a painstaking hide-and-seek/making do with half-light, half-speak"; relishes the succulent pleasure of eating an apricot, with its "gush of taboo sweetness"; and imagines the "unupholstered voice, a life in outline" in her stunning elegy to C. S. Lewis. Whimsical, organic, and wise, the poems in I Praise My Destroyer affirm Ackerman's place as one of the most enchanting poets writing today. "Brilliant . . . Ackerman expresses her signature love for the world in all its seething glory. . . . Her sensuality is still in full force."  -- Booklist "[These poems are] full of physical participation in the world, human involvement, and (as one might expect of this scholar of the senses) an eloquent eye."  --Richard Wilbur "Vivid, playful, abundant, these poems constitute a directory of colors, an assembly of weathers, waters, creatures, and a bold, brash, invincible vote of confidence."  --Anthony Hecht "[Ackerman's] poems express a sense of sheer joy in physical existence, which she explores in language that has its own intense life. The book is a pure pleasure."  --Louis Simpson new book of poetry since Jaguar of Sweet Laughter , poet and naturalist Diane Ackerman combines her deep understanding of the world with her immense passion for language to craft richly sensual poems that "honor all life/wherever and in whatever form/it may deal." Imbued with ravishing imagery, these exuberant and lyrical explorations of aging, longing, and death demonstrate Ackerman's full engagement with every aspect of life's process. Ackerman muses on the confines of therapy sessions, where she intersects "twice a week/in a painstaking hide-and-seek/making do with half-light, half-speak"; relishes the succulent pleasure of eating an apricot, with its "gush of taboo sweetness"; and imagines the "unupholstered voice, a life in outline" in her stunning elegy to C. S. Lewis. Whimsical, organic, and wise, the poems in I Praise My Destroyer affirm Ackerman's place as one of the most enchanting poets writing today. In her first new book of poetry since Jaguar of Sweet Laughter, Diane Ackerman combines her deep understanding of the world with her immense passion for language to craft richly sensual poems that "honor all life/wherever and in whatever form/it may deal". Imbued with ravishing imagery, these exuberant and lyrical explorations of aging, longing, and death demonstrate Ackerman's full engagement with every aspect of life's process. The poet and naturalist muses on the confines of therapy sessions, where she interests "twice a week/in a painstaking hide-and-seek/making do with half-light, half-speak"; relishes the succulent pleasure of eating an apricot, with its "gush of taboo sweetness"; and imagines the "unupholstered voice, a life in outline" in her stunning elegy to C. S. Lewis. Whimsical, organic, and wise, the poems in I Praise My Destroyer affirm Ackerman's place as one of the most enchanting poets writing today. Diane Ackerman lives in upstate New york. WE DIE -- for Carl Sagan We die despite appointments and feuds, while our toddler, who recently learned to say No, opens and shuts drawers a hundred times a day and our teen braces for the rapids of romance. We die despite the contracts and business trips we planned, when our desk is untidy, despite a long list of things to do which we keep simmering like a pot of rich broth. We die despite work we cherish, marrying whom we love, piling up a star-spangled fortune, basking on the Riviera of fame, and achieving , that human participle with no known object. Life is not fair , the old saw goes. We know, we know, but the saw glides slow, one faint rasp, and then at length another. When you died, I felt its jagged teeth rip. Small heartwounds opened and bled, closing as new ones opened ahead. Horror welled, not from the how but the when. You died at the top of your career, happy, blessed by love, still young. Playing by evolution's rules, you won: prospered, bred, rose in your tribe, did what the parent gods and society prized. Yet it didn't save you, love or dough. Even when it happens slow, it happens fast, and then there's no tomorrow. Time topples, the castle of cards collapses, thoughts melt, the subscription lapses. What a waste of life we spend in asking, in wish and worry and want and sorrow. A tall man, you lie low, now and forever complete, your brilliant star eclipsed. I