Rae Armantrout Famous Quotes
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Proscenium of nearly identical mountain ridges, arched out and downward, one 'after' another, to the valley floor: curtains tied back, a gesture
Thus drivers inching southward will see the phalanx of birds heading west as one spontaneous gesture.
We sleep together in the dark but confuse light with love.
Clarity need not be equivalent to / readability. How readable is the world?
Lily Brown writes with and against things in poems that are coiled up tight as springs (or snakes). A believer in the power of the line, she writes, 'I think the plastics/and sink them' then 'Where is the sand/man hiding the dirt.' These terse, biting poems will make you look around and wonder.
I know you by your willingness.
The feeling of emptiness is a pre-existing condition. Jargon forces intimacy.
Curled up in bed,
I'm young
in the old way.
Today could be described as a retired man humming tunelessly to himself.
Mozart creates a universe out of pleasantries.
A receipt blown crazily across the parking lot, was, perhaps, a moth.
The jacaranda, for instance, is beautiful but not serious.
We are all full of discourses that we only half understand and half mean.
I'm composed largely of what the streets and rooms look like, of how to arrive 'just' here.
Now light sits in the chairs
When I dreamed about flying,
it was as a skill
I needed to regain.
This is a strange book: visionary and dark. It stutters out a kind of music: repeated phrases which accumulate errors and mutate as they go like chromosomes or, as Woodward puts it better, 'visible fissile ribbons.' It's as if we were present for the moments of creation and extinction. Uncanny Valley is ominous and beautiful.
Ends Meet
1
Could be
time is practice,
balance,
the action
executed in the mind
before and after.
Where does mind end?
2
We mark a break
with what has come before,
come through the door,
down the hatch.
Not a clean break
exactly.
3
Our life was rehearsal,
Mother almost said
so that we believed
we would escort her
to the future
where she could be happy.
The ghosts swarm. They speak as one person. Each has left something undone.
an undiscovered tumor squats on her kidney.
So much happiness is caged in language, ready to burst out anytime and fade
But here I hold your dream in my poem.
Metaphor is ritual sacrifice. It kills the look-alike. No, metaphor is homeopathy.
This route is only one of several imaginary paths.
