translated by Jonathan Galassi Infernos howl in the murdered trees. Summer sleeps in the virgin honey, the lizard in its monster infancy. For my human smell, thanks to the angels’ air, to water, my celestial heart in the cell’s fertile dark.
Summation: It was deliberate. We had to burn our barn, let our harvest go. Precipitations: Mama lost the baby, Father did not come back from town. The chestnuts failed again. We were distressed. Particularly lost. At winter’s eager edge. The Process: We bemused ourselves. Considerations: We could not: leave Mama alone with her cavernous dry…
Charles Simic, Jackstraws, poems: This collection of new poems paints exquisite and shattering word pictures that lend meaning to a chaotic world, uniting the solemn with the absurd. Simic continues to startle with images of the ethereal, fantastic visions of the everyday, and moments full of humor and heartache. (FSG)
1. It’s so much easier to get further from home than nearer that all men become travelers. 2. Of all the ways to avoid living, perfect discipline is the most admired. 3. Idolaters of the great need to believe that what they love cannot fail them, adorers of camp, kitsch, trash that…
road sign at the edge of town A blue part that is remembered, not a member of the class of prosthetic memories but still a leg up, a boost giving a glimpse over the wall of exile, to a blue that is remarkable and lovely for a garbage can: an aisle of blue garbage cans…
Gerald Stern, Last Blue, poems: A statement from Stern himself illuminates the focus of his outstanding twelfth collection: “Light vs. darkness has always been one of my themes, but now more than ever. Not only is this the root-and metaphor-for all the major religions, but the almost biological frame of reference for humans. With me,…
So the question becomes—no offense— are men wolves or are men slop? Because my heart is definitely a pig. Each boy sings like a halfwit alone in a barn: Little pig heart, little pig heart, let me in. Oh yes, those farm boys let loose to form cities have a way with words. My whiskered…
R: A special present for my birthday? How sweet of you. But what are you thinking of? T: Rather than some trinket, beaded out of flashy stones, a living gift. R: A living gift! One that grows on me? T: Exactly. A present, out of all our past, to keep you constant company. R: Good!…
Mark Strand, The Weather of Words: Poetic Invention, essays: A brilliant and witty collection of writings on the art and nature of poetry, exploring the relationship between photographs and poems, the eternal lyric, old forms, and an alphabet of influences. (Knopf)
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