been holed up all weekend with a pile of books. started with the mammoth book of horror (2005), some eric nylund (signal to noise) and a stack of poetry books, including jennifer michael hecht's new book funny. not to mention opening my head up and listening to the quiet roar as i dive back into jorie graham's overlord.
A couple of samples:
Blind Love
Lady says, Doc, I think I need glasses.
Teller says, You sure do, Lady, this is a bank.
Lady wanders out, it's winter, wonders whether
other things have got mistaken, too.
At home she ambles through the house
with the sudden feeling that it all has been
rewritten. Notices a shadow as ivy peels from brick,
clatter of silverware drawer, a quarter
on her bathroom floor. As on a vase the piper
plays not to the ear but to the more endeared
inner listener, so, quiet in an April afternoon,
late sun erupts a riot into her room.
Coin and cutlery grow red; wood glows golden in the hall.
Outside, ivy tendrils find new purchase on the wall.
--Jennifer Michael Hecht
Little Exercise
The screen is full of voices, all of them holding their tongues.
Certain things have to be "undergone," yes.
To come to a greater state of consciousness, yes.
Let the face show itself through the screen.
Let the organizing eyes show themselves.
Let them float to the surface of this shine and glow there.
The world now being killed by its children. Also its guests.
An oracle? --a sniper, a child beater, a dying parent in the house,
a soil so overfedd it cannot hold a root system in place?
Look--the slightest wind undoes the young crop.
Are we "beyond salvation"? Wil you not speak?
Such a large absence--shall it not compel the largest presence?
Can we not break the wall?
And can it please not be a mirror lord?
--Jorie Graham
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