ShallCross - Softcover

Wright, C. D.

Softcover

ISBN 10: 1556595433 ISBN 13: 9781556595431

Verlag: Copper Canyon Press,U.S., 2018

Inhaltsangabe

“Wright has found a way to wed fragments of an iconic America to a luminously strange idiom, eerie as a tin whistle.” —The New Yorker

“Wright gets better with each book, expanding the reach of her art; it seems it could take in anything.” —Publishers Weekly

“These poems are so perfect they appear to have been cut from optical glass with very sharp knives; the poet’s eye moves over the treacherous landscape of the soul like a lunar eye, measuring seasons, marking time, setting houses and bodies on fire.” —Rikki Ducornet

In ShallCross, C. D. Wright brings together brief, striking poems in tandem with the longer, unrelenting forms for which she has become recognized and beloved. Pushing the boundaries of genre, language, and poetic populism, ShallCross showcases Wright’s singular voice that navigates a rigorous space between journalistic activism, stunning narrative, sociopolitical outrage, and erotic lyricism. This dazzling collection is further evidence that Wright was among our most thrilling and innovative contemporary poets.

. . . You are still young enough
To adopt a xolo
Write an opera on glass
Bed a chimera
Bedazzle and be devoured
The moonroof in your head
Slowly sliding open
To the scent of oleander

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Über die Autorin bzw. den Autor

C.D. Wright was born and raised in the Ozark Mountains of Arkansas. She has published over a dozen collections of poetry, most recently One With Others (Copper Canyon Press, 2011). She has received numerous awards including a MacArthur Fellowship and taught for many years at Brown University.

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Shall Cross (excerpted)We are walking along a curveObserved by the hawkCompleting the arcFor us but not by usResponding to the gravityOf the bend as we climbToward a jagged ridgePages fluttered by the softestWind as wind slips throughThe folding doorOf a listing phone boothAcross the drawbridgeA store called Her HandsA club called His RoomAn out of date flier forA free seminar for the heartAngelica is rampantEgrets flock the treetopsThe day wears itself awayAgainst the barbed fencingA barge goes quietly off courseCars are sparser nowCrows are everywhereGetting bigger louder closerIn a well-kept farmhouseA lid slams downOn a pounded pianoAs the words sink into meYou are still young enoughTo adopt a xoloWrite an opera on glassBed a chimeraBedazzle and be devouredThe moonroof in your headSlowly sliding openTo the scent of oleanderThe bad gushing out of youThings in plain sight things hiddenIt doesn't make any difference If I could buffer my fallNot with my body but my breathMaybe stay awake forThe appearance of a small angelClear frozen beautifulLike someone from ChicagoLiving ocular proofOf an immense force swoopingSwiftly downward to coolThe coils within coilsHaving missed the free seminarBy several decades nowEven the namer of clouds is goneSo whatever I thoughtWas tender or trueLeft my face a networkOf hatchmarks from a motherLost in the exclusion zoneFather felled from the feet upSon whose brown eyesAre both sharper and softerThan either of oursAn impossible childNo one could break or resistWho has begun to beat his ownDiamondback pathTo the edge of his fieldTo the edge of his lifeAs the big clouds are rolling inI try to herd the worst feelingsI ever felt the worst thoughtsThe very worst under oneWarped sheet of metalA non-believer dropped toA pair of knobby kneesEvery other thing reminds meOf you eve a tempuraBy a seven-year-oldFrom Down Under titled The Driver Sits In The ShadeBut What About The HorseIt was something you mightHave said to a family waitingFor a taxi to the historic districtOr a gondola to take themOff of the mountainEven a milk glassOf field flowers sensedYou entering the roomBefore you dropped me offOn a Lower East Side curbWith my rolling bags of griefAnd pretty sheer brassieresIt's starting to seem as if everyoneWere already deadAnd looking for my glassesWhile Vic plunks out BucketsOf Rain to a smoke-soakedRoadhouse of rubesMy disappointment sitsUnder the Tree of DisappointmentIn a dirty skirt in a ruffOf dirt the color of dirtIf a hand and it could be my handMoves over the bark it touchesWhere an arrow passed through the trunkThe mind wills it into reverseThat the shaft of the arrow glideSoundlessly backwardAnd the hand it could be your handSoothes the welt left by its entryThe air turns the blue of a seldom wornDress left in a closet by the womanWho opened a notebookTo what must have been your handTI looked like you strikingScript of course it was your handThat wrote she doesn't get itI was never thereOf my own volitionI would have never askedThe grass is strong unlike herThe water unperturbedly furledThe Ladder Tree leans toward meAnd then swings out of reachThe ache that will last the rest OF our lives stiffens into those wordsThe Tree of KnowledgeTries to draw off the poisonWithout destroying itselfNow who will make the record of usThe Tree of KnowledgeTries to draw off the poisonWithout destroying itselfNow who will make the record of usWho will be the authorOf our blind and bilious hours Of the silken ear of our yearsWho will distinguish our dandruffFrom the rest among the gusts of historyWho will turn our maudlin concernsInto moments of incandescenceWho remember when I was a dirty blondThat hung like a mare's maneA blond with an even dirtier mouthAnd a pent-up anatomyYour shoe trailing on the groundMoving gracefully round meTrying to stir up the hard panSo thirsty and hotWho fill us with the tingleOf animation and of wonderWho be there glisteningWith sweat and forgivenessOnce the stall has been muckedAnd re-muckedThe Tree That Owns Itself appearsSickly but still blossomsIn Vic's home town along withThe eight feet of earth around itWhich is not enoughSedated to hopefully endureThe dozers and cranesWhen the word turbine wanesI can hear a bee entering a quinceA shoot of bamboo piercingThe skin of the earth A black ant climbing a stemThe sound of raw umberDistinct from burntThe sound of still waterThe sound of a towelDrifting to the groundThe sound of you rubbingOil on someone else's limbsIt is so patently stupid to stickBy a one-stoplight town dreamTo love and be loved to the endWithout rut or recriminationComo una estupida peliculaWe saw at an outdoor theaterIn Guerrero standing upFrom previews to creditsIn a warm downpourThen I see the quiveryShadow of my stricken selfLeft on a traffic islandAt the noisiest intersectionIn Buenos AiresDrowning in the decibelsI don't want you to count The conks on my trunkUnder the Tree of Conjugal LoveHow this feels to be diminishedBy one the one mistakenFor the one who would usherUs away from the TreeOf Failure and ShameBeyond the Tree of DeceitUnfulfillment and illusionInto the limbic woodsOf subtle adults-only stuff

Details zur Ausgabe

• Verlag: Copper Canyon Press,U.S.
• Erscheinungsdatum: 2018
• Sprache: Englisch
• ISBN 10: 1556595433
• ISBN 13: 9781556595431
• Einband: Tapa blanda
• Anzahl der Seiten: 176
• Kontakt zum Hersteller: Nicht verfügbar