All the Great Territories: Crab Orchard Series in Poetry
Autor Matthew Austin Wimberleyen Limba Engleză Paperback – 13 feb 2020
Winner, Watherford Award for Best Books about Appalachia, 2020
In 2012 Matthew Wimberley took a two-month journey, traveling and living out of his car, during which time he had planned to spread his father’s ashes. By trip’s end, the ashes remained, but Wimberley had begun a conversation with his deceased father that is continued here in his debut collection.
All the Great Territories is a book of elegies for a father as well as a confrontation with the hostile, yet beautiful landscape of southern Appalachia. In the wake of an estranged father’s death, the speaker confronts that loss while celebrating the geography of childhood and the connections formed between the living and the dead. The narrative poems in this collection tell one story through many: a once failed relationship, the conversations we have with those we love after they are gone. In an attempt to make sense of the father-son relationship, Wimberley embraces and explores the pain of personal loss and the beauty of the natural world.
Stitching together sundered realms—from Idaho to the Blue Ridge Mountains and from the ghost of memory to the iron present of self—Wimberley produces a map for reckoning with grief and the world’s darker forces. At once a labor of love and a searing indictment of those who sensationalize and dehumanize the people and geography of Appalachia, All the Great Territories sparks the reader forward, creating a homeland all its own. “Because it’s my memory I can give it to you,” Wimberley’s speaker declares, and it’s a promise well kept in this tender and remarkable debut.
In 2012 Matthew Wimberley took a two-month journey, traveling and living out of his car, during which time he had planned to spread his father’s ashes. By trip’s end, the ashes remained, but Wimberley had begun a conversation with his deceased father that is continued here in his debut collection.
All the Great Territories is a book of elegies for a father as well as a confrontation with the hostile, yet beautiful landscape of southern Appalachia. In the wake of an estranged father’s death, the speaker confronts that loss while celebrating the geography of childhood and the connections formed between the living and the dead. The narrative poems in this collection tell one story through many: a once failed relationship, the conversations we have with those we love after they are gone. In an attempt to make sense of the father-son relationship, Wimberley embraces and explores the pain of personal loss and the beauty of the natural world.
Stitching together sundered realms—from Idaho to the Blue Ridge Mountains and from the ghost of memory to the iron present of self—Wimberley produces a map for reckoning with grief and the world’s darker forces. At once a labor of love and a searing indictment of those who sensationalize and dehumanize the people and geography of Appalachia, All the Great Territories sparks the reader forward, creating a homeland all its own. “Because it’s my memory I can give it to you,” Wimberley’s speaker declares, and it’s a promise well kept in this tender and remarkable debut.
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Specificații
ISBN-13: 9780809337736
ISBN-10: 0809337738
Pagini: 84
Dimensiuni: 152 x 229 x 8 mm
Greutate: 0.14 kg
Ediția:1st Edition
Editura: Southern Illinois University Press
Colecția Southern Illinois University Press
Seria Crab Orchard Series in Poetry
ISBN-10: 0809337738
Pagini: 84
Dimensiuni: 152 x 229 x 8 mm
Greutate: 0.14 kg
Ediția:1st Edition
Editura: Southern Illinois University Press
Colecția Southern Illinois University Press
Seria Crab Orchard Series in Poetry
Notă biografică
Matthew Wimberley received his MFA in poetry from New York University. His poems have appeared in Best New Poets, Missouri Review, Poem-a-Day, diode, Pleiades,Shenandoah, and River Styx, among others.
Extras
BLACK MOUNTAINS
This isn't a goodbye.
The sun goes down
in the west to push spring
up through the earth. I've heard
painted trillium have bloomed
in the hills of the desolate world.
The moon tries thirty different ways
a month to move us
closer. Tonight it's not there.
I've loved more than you-
darker, broken things.
ON TRIAL IN THE COURT OF NATURE
Then, you try to confess your crime
of turning the world into words
to the mosquitoes flickering in the dark-
"Don't be an idiot" they interrupt,
shuffling their wings against your face.
"If I may address the court," you ask the flies
bobbing in a glass of milk
but they say nothing, like gods.
The whippoorwill will sentence you
to stand for nights on end in the forest
and examine every stone, count the bronze
beech leaves, every burl, the petals of chicory,
the rattlesnake master, the thunderstorm
passing overhead, each seam of lightning
breaking the sky. You object to the witness
of sunup and sundown. You begin
to think it will take your entire life,
and you grow thirsty and open your mouth
trying to drink the rain.
PRELUDE
The night before the funeral
I carve his face out of the dark
with an outstretched finger
scraping the wreckage of dusk
on the window glass and over
the hunched frame of a storm-
ruined hay barn.
It's 2012, the year the world ends.
The grackles widen over hornbeam
like notes on sheet music
at the far edge of the land. Once,
my mother took me
away from my father
below the quarter moon.
She drove a '76 Gremlin,
ready to be junked and forgotten
by the time I was born.
There is no need
to go back. To watch the sunrise
in the side view mirror
like the bright painted steel
of a Ferris wheel in a traveling fair.
There's a night that sleeps
and a sky for darkness and for burial,
for ash, and flight.
ELEGY NEAR LITTLE BLACK PINE ROUGH
I will mourn him
alone, as I could not
that February,
or days later at the church
where the used-car salesmen
slouched in the pews
and the pews complained
for lack of emptiness. Weeks
went by and still nothing. Not
from Boone to Llano, Aurora,
threading northwest through the Wind
River Range, and all the way
to the Pacific. Not here. The map
is a coffin I can't bury him in
and so I've kept him from the earth-
undisturbed and cold.
I do not know why. It's evening.
The flies of summer enumerate,
spin through the air and the dead
limbs cracked from last week's
storm hold on.
This isn't a goodbye.
The sun goes down
in the west to push spring
up through the earth. I've heard
painted trillium have bloomed
in the hills of the desolate world.
The moon tries thirty different ways
a month to move us
closer. Tonight it's not there.
I've loved more than you-
darker, broken things.
ON TRIAL IN THE COURT OF NATURE
Then, you try to confess your crime
of turning the world into words
to the mosquitoes flickering in the dark-
"Don't be an idiot" they interrupt,
shuffling their wings against your face.
"If I may address the court," you ask the flies
bobbing in a glass of milk
but they say nothing, like gods.
The whippoorwill will sentence you
to stand for nights on end in the forest
and examine every stone, count the bronze
beech leaves, every burl, the petals of chicory,
the rattlesnake master, the thunderstorm
passing overhead, each seam of lightning
breaking the sky. You object to the witness
of sunup and sundown. You begin
to think it will take your entire life,
and you grow thirsty and open your mouth
trying to drink the rain.
PRELUDE
The night before the funeral
I carve his face out of the dark
with an outstretched finger
scraping the wreckage of dusk
on the window glass and over
the hunched frame of a storm-
ruined hay barn.
It's 2012, the year the world ends.
The grackles widen over hornbeam
like notes on sheet music
at the far edge of the land. Once,
my mother took me
away from my father
below the quarter moon.
She drove a '76 Gremlin,
ready to be junked and forgotten
by the time I was born.
There is no need
to go back. To watch the sunrise
in the side view mirror
like the bright painted steel
of a Ferris wheel in a traveling fair.
There's a night that sleeps
and a sky for darkness and for burial,
for ash, and flight.
ELEGY NEAR LITTLE BLACK PINE ROUGH
I will mourn him
alone, as I could not
that February,
or days later at the church
where the used-car salesmen
slouched in the pews
and the pews complained
for lack of emptiness. Weeks
went by and still nothing. Not
from Boone to Llano, Aurora,
threading northwest through the Wind
River Range, and all the way
to the Pacific. Not here. The map
is a coffin I can't bury him in
and so I've kept him from the earth-
undisturbed and cold.
I do not know why. It's evening.
The flies of summer enumerate,
spin through the air and the dead
limbs cracked from last week's
storm hold on.
Cuprins
CONTENTS
*
Black Mountains
Homily
Elegy Written in Dust Kicked Up along a Back Road
In the Morning, the Spirit Begins to Speak
The Snow Speaks Its Own Name
Possum
Phenology
Husk
On Trial in the Court of Nature
To a Stranger Lost in the Country
**
Prelude
All the Great Territories
Incineration
Holding My Father
Words for My Father from Salmon, Idaho
Pantoum Holding an Extinct Bird
Epitaph
Infinity on the Glass
Emblem for Death Carved into a Tree
Cold Light
***
At Night
Silent Woods
Ghazal Returning from Exile by the Light of a County Fair
Though He Is Gone, I Carry Him Down from the Mountain
Myth
Here on Earth, 1994
Absence
In Lieu of Flowers
Elegy Near Little Black Pine Rough
The Celebrated Colors of the Local Sunsets
Acknowledgments
*
Black Mountains
Homily
Elegy Written in Dust Kicked Up along a Back Road
In the Morning, the Spirit Begins to Speak
The Snow Speaks Its Own Name
Possum
Phenology
Husk
On Trial in the Court of Nature
To a Stranger Lost in the Country
**
Prelude
All the Great Territories
Incineration
Holding My Father
Words for My Father from Salmon, Idaho
Pantoum Holding an Extinct Bird
Epitaph
Infinity on the Glass
Emblem for Death Carved into a Tree
Cold Light
***
At Night
Silent Woods
Ghazal Returning from Exile by the Light of a County Fair
Though He Is Gone, I Carry Him Down from the Mountain
Myth
Here on Earth, 1994
Absence
In Lieu of Flowers
Elegy Near Little Black Pine Rough
The Celebrated Colors of the Local Sunsets
Acknowledgments
Recenzii
“Matthew Wimberley’s deeply intimate and lyrical collection All the Great Territories maps a son’s journey through the landscapes of loss—through empty towns and black mountains and snow-covered fields. Forged by tender observations, these poems seek to uncover personal histories half-buried under layers of dirt and ash. They burn bright with elegy and longing for a father, a home, a memory of a life left behind.”—Vandana Khanna, author of Train to Agra
“The poems in this rich and incisive book are close-held and generous, in both detail and formal expression. Although the poet who has written these fine poems is young, he painfully recognizes the world he comes from is nearly lost. That is the blunt lot of rural America at the present moment. Thus, these poems have a moving, elegiac quality, but also, sublimely and through subtle implication, they acknowledge a hope, perhaps to come from the enduring land itself, where these poems of vital human experience are rooted. This is a book of knowledge, but it comes at us against our current grain, slowly, and in observable detail as it all happens in time.—Maurice Manning, author of One Man’s Dark
“We love how Matt Wimberley takes in the world, making an image-laden music. Like Wendell Berry and Larry Levis, he creates landscapes that enter the consciousness, sometimes healing it, sometimes breaking it open. Haunted by a father’s ghost, these poems sift through beauty and damage. We admire their compression and well-made lines, like the woods and mountains where they were written, though the title poem is a highway song, traveling the breadth of America, with its deserts and plateaus, red mud and tumbleweeds. In the soul tradition of Whitman, Kerouac, and Guthrie, these poems have heart.”—Dorianne Laux, author of Only as the Day Is Long: New and Selected Poems, and Joseph Millar, author of Kingdom
“The poems in this rich and incisive book are close-held and generous, in both detail and formal expression. Although the poet who has written these fine poems is young, he painfully recognizes the world he comes from is nearly lost. That is the blunt lot of rural America at the present moment. Thus, these poems have a moving, elegiac quality, but also, sublimely and through subtle implication, they acknowledge a hope, perhaps to come from the enduring land itself, where these poems of vital human experience are rooted. This is a book of knowledge, but it comes at us against our current grain, slowly, and in observable detail as it all happens in time.—Maurice Manning, author of One Man’s Dark
“We love how Matt Wimberley takes in the world, making an image-laden music. Like Wendell Berry and Larry Levis, he creates landscapes that enter the consciousness, sometimes healing it, sometimes breaking it open. Haunted by a father’s ghost, these poems sift through beauty and damage. We admire their compression and well-made lines, like the woods and mountains where they were written, though the title poem is a highway song, traveling the breadth of America, with its deserts and plateaus, red mud and tumbleweeds. In the soul tradition of Whitman, Kerouac, and Guthrie, these poems have heart.”—Dorianne Laux, author of Only as the Day Is Long: New and Selected Poems, and Joseph Millar, author of Kingdom
Descriere
All the Great Territories is a book of elegies for a father as well as a confrontation with the hostile, yet beautiful landscape of southern Appalachia. In the wake of an estranged father’s death, the speaker confronts that loss while celebrating the geography of childhood and the connections formed between the living and the dead.