By Debora Greger
From the name poem:
pink as useless shrimp, the unborn curls in its tide pool--seed pearl
whose mom lusters over irritant love it's too overdue to dislodge;
little anemone, shrinking from contact. So and holds separate what it so much heavily binds.
"Ms. Greger's poems happen on the element of stumble upon among the brain and the realm of topic. . . . And it's the resistance of the true and the expanding urgency the poet feels in attempting to extinguish her solitude . . . that make those poems emotional."--The big apple instances e-book Review
Originally released in 1985.
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Extra info for And (Princeton Princeton Series of Contemporary Poets) (Princeton Legacy Library)
Warmth lures as much as love, or passes for it—summer's faraway country mocks like an out-of-register postcard, glossy colors loose of the objects endowing them with memory's worth, a leaf-infused green the first abstraction. You become another, at one remove in the layered embrace of the freeze whose hold I can't break. Remember that print where a Japanese courtesan, paper parasol shielding her plum-blossom skin, urged her trailing servants bare-ankled across snow half paper, half ink? Later, the story unfolded, after her death, her disconsolate lover carved a flute of one of her bones.
That such attachments as we enter into pool around us, liquid with assets. That word be made good if not as gold, as unriddled wood. Or else that tenant be enjoined from entry, squatter as well: rat and field mouse invading pantry, pigeons billing in attic filth, ant hauling the half-eaten harp of a moth wing down a banister. That, boarded up, windows be blinded to the stripping room by room of what, under auction's hammer, will be knocked down: canopied bed, rolled carpets' limp tree trunks, forest floor cleared.
Where are you in all this? Down, out with the rest of the clientele, the privileged assuming positions indifferent to any workings but eye-masked sleep. Deeper, where it is tomorrow already, a baker strokes a breast of dough. BELLWETHER ON THE ENCLOSURE ACTS 0, wastes and commons of England, harbors of wild flowers where barge-like cows munched a measured progress toward a fair sailing pennants from its masts, children whirling in pre-Copernican eddies off to the side of lords who cruised past islands of animals for sale and men for hire— lords who swooped, cormerauntes, gredye guiles, over small holdings, leases swallowed like fish, who laid out hedgerows and ditches, though not with their own hands, which raised the dainty flags of scented handkerchiefs to thin noses— it is for you, my sheep, they engrossed leaseholds, emparked and enclosed public lands, turning tillage to sheep-run, that from Down, Oxford, and Oxford Down breeds would come wool for the gowns of scholars, not just meat for the high table but judge's wig as well; unstinting praise of the larger demesne, of an economy turned by a queen's decree that wool make her subjects' hose, cloaks and shrouds; findings in favor of a future expert in droppings and the disappearing Midlands village of the Middle Ages, for a historian who lauds agrarian reform as he fingers the rough tweed of his jacket, a close-cropped weave that reads the same the wrong side as the right.