Book of the Week – Between Now and Now by Marcus Liljedahl

Marcus Liljedahl’s Between Now and Now operates like one of those small, tightly wound toys that, when unleashed, explodes outward in unexpected and overwhelming ways. This is not poetry for passive consumption—it’s dense, jagged, and unrelentingly present. Through deceptively brief lines, Liljedahl creates a centrifuge of meaning, spinning out words in ways you can’t always parse immediately—or ever, maybe.  

The poems in Between Now and Now are snapshots of the human condition, but they’re also like shards of a shattered metaphysical mirror. Each fragment reflects the big, cosmic stuff—time, freedom, memory—but in a way that feels startlingly concrete.   

For example, “the shielded sky we fell from darkens with birds of prey” speaks to humanity’s fragility, the inevitability of decline, and the haunting presence of forces beyond our control. 

Another poem “to grow wings or not / this cage has a guillotine door” evokes the universal desire to transcend limitations, to strive for liberation or self-transformation. Yet the second line—”this cage has a guillotine door”—warns that the very act of reaching for freedom can come with devastating consequences. The guillotine door suggests that escape, though possible, may also lead to destruction. 

Liljedahl’s ability to connect the immediate and the universal is one of the defining features of his work. His language strips away excess until only the essential remains, allowing even the most abstract ideas to feel tangible. For instance, “take my hand and let us escape into tomorrow’s wind“ could, in another context, sound pastoral. Here, though, it carries an almost primal urgency. The “wind” isn’t just weather—it’s propulsion, movement, the desperate need to push against the inertia of the present. 

His imagery, in particular, does much of the heavy lifting in this collection. The poem, “a black ship leaves with broken china in its belly” is an evocative metaphor for fragility, loss, and the burden of carrying damage forward. The “black ship” suggests a vessel traveling through darkness or uncertainty. The “broken china in its belly” could symbolize delicate, shattered pieces of the past, perhaps memories, relationships, or cultural artifacts. Together, the image speaks to the inevitability of moving forward while bearing the scars of what has been broken, and the quiet sorrow of displacement or transformation. 

Ultimately, Between Now and Now is the kind of work that refuses to let you relax into it. It demands that you engage, that you interrogate not just the poetry but yourself. This is poetry that doesn’t comfort; it disrupts. And that disruption is the point.