The Sea-Fight Tomorrow The Sea-Fight Tomorrow
Afraid to take a chance. They pass haphazardly in all directions. Diving into his car. Or yours. Are there no strangers in town? Entering, leaving, crossing. I cross to the window and wave. Everybody looks alike. Pyramids. It must be somebody who has a house in the country. He said he would. Characteristic kinesthetic and tactile deficits on opposite sides of the body. Something clicked somewhere. It's got to be airtight on the other end. The butterfly-shaped central gray. Who is this man? It was a restful ride. The transition gradual, without sharp demarcation. The house was full of pictures. The night man was gone. Important changes from level to level. I pretend to listen.
Nov 19, 2008 / Books & the Arts / Keith Waldrop
Night Soil Night Soil
A random walk, its ordinary motion blurring chronology. Behind, a seascape. As if on a ship's deck. Fear of defeat is an old habit. All this fuss, with my hat pushed back. Honeyed phantastic. En- raptured soul. Another blow. From the end of the corridor, at the kitchen window. These frosts are cruel. I am not up to them. Out on the balcony, basking. History is trash. Elaborate battles make peace and then, after spectacular defeat, I may go and I may not. I'm in a bad mood, forever. We bring no resemblance. Torment and dreams. Grotesque and in- clement. Always the same amazing luck. Rest before the fireplace, forget fine spacing. To control noise by attacking the odds. Grope for the knob. Shutting out light and air. Cold stone floor. Sinking. Devouring pit. Dissolve, now, the dungeon. Streaks of light stream from your shadow. Redisposed. Clouds are not simply carried. We observe words and winds. The door slams behind us. Not so much forced by the sun as simply coasting under our own inertia. The knives of reality. Repeat the names. Doves, when they fight. Scorn is best and yes, we may go and we may not.
Nov 19, 2008 / Books & the Arts / Keith Waldrop
Texas Texas
A star is just a smudge on magnified glass. I have never been more disappointed. Nietzsche takes a saunter along the border because it is warm enough to step out at night. Malevolent blobs dance at his feet. This is when we pause to speak in sleep. Our eyes follow the lights while we ponder which is worse: Nothing or something you don't recognize.
Nov 12, 2008 / Books & the Arts / Fanny Howe
Manifesto Manifesto
after Breton When I dream, I vote. Exercise my rights as citizen of the dream state to terra-form the future. Work to abolish the most abject poverty of all-- that of knowing only one world. Activists, lovers-- don't just entwine your bodies, but also dreams. When you sleep together, go all the way!
Oct 29, 2008 / Books & the Arts / Elaine Equi
This Town Is Going Out of Business This Town Is Going Out of Business
[This town is going out of business that I call my brain] [the public space of my head got suburbed] [the heaven-heaped core of capital-] [ized stars is empty now as sleep is full] [of new words for new feelings like infrastructure-] [nostalgia or love-outside-the- citadel] [the past tense is tragedy while the present tense is comedy] [as all the empires and epochs have ended] [but for this one and then only out here] [in the late districts of the imagination] [in the old light of our pretty periphery]
Oct 15, 2008 / Books & the Arts / Joshua Clover
Prison Poem: “You stripped away the sea… #11” Prison Poem: “You stripped away the sea… #11”
After stripping me of the seas, a scattering & running start, And giving me instead a foothold of violent earth, What'd it get you? A brilliant retribution: You couldn't seize these lips still stirring. (Translated from the Russian by John High)
Oct 8, 2008 / Books & the Arts / Osip Mandelstam
New England New England
In New England the equipmental quality of equipment was discovered, the cleaning lady was deported, ants invade the attic and this is sad. There is no Bronx River Expressway there are single beds and shutters and rafters and a flash of lightning in the sky. There are thoughts like Old World, New World, Bank Vault and Whale. Happiness is a battering ram of one if by land two if by tiptoe, three if by a haunted house intrepid in its scholars, o'wearied in its deep.
Oct 1, 2008 / Books & the Arts / Lisa Jarnot
Reasonable Cause Reasonable Cause
Imagine cities you've Inhabited, streets Paved in lava stone. You never intended to pray In the temples, had Nothing to sell. Now imagine yourself Returning to those same cities. The river flows, the summit Emerges each morning from the haze. Hunt for people you knew, Knock on their doors. Ask yourself Where are the vases, animals Etched in gold? Where are the wines From distant places, Banquets ferreted From the bowels of the earth? While you were missing Other people wore Your garments, Slept in your bed. How frightening The man who said In his affliction Wood has hope. Cut down It will flourish. If the root grows old And the trunk withers In dust, at the scent of water It will germinate.
Jun 1, 2006 / Books & the Arts / James Longenbach
Last Night in Havana Last Night in Havana
Editor’s Note: Nation contributor Dan Wakefield alerted us to our role in helping to launch the poetry career of Richard Blanco, selected by the White House as the 2013 inaugural poet. Dan writes: “When I went to teach at Florida International University in the spring of 1994, I went to a student reading and was especially impressed by one of the poets, a young man named Richard Blanco. I asked if he would give me copies of the poems he read that night, and I picked out three of them I thought were worthy of publication and suggested I submit them to The Nation, where I have been a long-time contributor. Rick said none of his work had been published yet, and was happy for me to send the poems to Grace Shulman, the poetry editor. To my delight and to Rick’s, Shulman selected his poem “Last Night in Havana,” and eventually published it in The Nation (March 31, 1997). So The Nation was the first periodical to accept for publication the work of our new inaugural poet. (To thank me, Rick gave me my first guided tour of Little Havana, Miami’s legendary Cuban neighborhood.)” The palms sink willingly into the saffron ground. All I can map now is the marble veins of static rivers, the island coastline retreated like a hem from the sargasso patches of Caribbean. I think of you primo hermano, huddled on the edge of an Almendares curb last night your Greco shadow spilled over the street, and over the tracks stapled to the weeds below your bedroom window. Shawled in cobwebs of wind, we slapped at unreachable mosquitos as Havana’s tenements collapsed around us, enclosed us in yellow like the pages of old books or the stucco walls of a hollow chapel. You confessed you live with one foot ankled in the sand of a revolution, one Viking sole on the beach testing an unparted sea for the stag tide, the gulf wind, a legible puzzle of stars, the perfect moon that will increase your chances through the straits to my door, blistered, salted, but alive, to cry—Llegué hermano, llegué! And silence the sweep of labor trains in your window, the creak of your father’s wheelchair in the hall searching for a bottle of pills he will find empty, the slam of your eyelids forcing sleep. The bus tires are ready, bound with piano wire, and the sail will be complete with a few more scraps of linen Tia Delia will stitch together after midnights when the neighbors are asleep. Last night in Havana, your words bounced from your knees bent against your face and drowned with the lees in an empty bottle of bootleg wine you clutched around the neck and will keep to store fresh water.
Mar 31, 1997 / Books & the Arts / Richard Blanco