Thomas Lux, The Street of Clocks, poems: In his first all-new volume in seven years, Lux delivers a mesmerizing series of lyrical monologues, imbued with characteristic playfulness and lucidity, in language both distilled and musical. (Houghton Mifflin)
If you do it with a feather, it’s erotic. If you do it with the whole chicken, it’s perverted. —Contemporary bumper sticker Kenmore gloss-white washing machine, you idiot savant— dgalosh ganosh dgalosh ganosh dgalosh ganosh. To exorcize our dirt, we walk down stairs toward hell. That darkness, past the water heater, behind the furnace ….
I am not making myself up for public consumption. I enjoy consumption when it means an end to things. Please deduce. Each flower comes from the axil of a small leaf which, however, is often so small that it might escape notice and which sometimes (as in the Mustard Family) disappears altogether. (Waving adieu,…
Gail Mazur, They Can’t Take That Away from Me, poems: Mazur’s sparkling, compassionate, and illuminating fourth collection measures the passage of time-the body’s desires and frailties, illness and death, children and parents, the intimacies of marriage. (Chicago)
While Three stacks sand on the tide wall. The welcome wagon dropped them here, between tours of the mudflats, between old men lining up shots of birds on one leg. Two says, It’s always been almost exactly like this, hasn’t it?, and Three misses what a dozen of us couldn’t fail to catch. The path…
Even the night suffers where it came from. And not until the shadows of mimosas gather over the creek, like large moth wings, un- spoken, will stars recover. You see, we both want the same thing. Like a dibble piercing the earth, turning over the moist sod, it is…
I took a pin to my eyes and broke the surface tension and scooped out the machinery that so faithfully pictured what surrounds and refuses to wake us I sewed shut the lids singing I watched the sun rise with my brain and my skin and my useless pin and I fell from that terrible…
Paul Muldoon, Poems 1968-1998, poems: A comprehensive selection from Muldoon’s eight books of poetry, this brilliant volume presents an astonishing range of moods and subjects, showing a poet reinventing himself at every turn. (FSG)
Though the memory doesn’t feel like mine, I must have been there, moving north northwest, holding, up above the Perfume River, with Simon, Isaac, our Arab gunner, Vince, called Pineapple because of his face, the NVA who kept on smiling, who would not stop to save his own life, and Peter who had stopped asking…
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