Cloud Pharmacy
Autor Susan Richen Limba Engleză Paperback – 10 feb 2014
"Cloud Pharmacy is a book of lyric fire. In our epoch of quick and shallow literary conversation it is rare to come across such level of attentiveness as one finds in this book."—Ilya Kaminsky
"In a central sequence, Rich explores nineteenth-century photographer Hannah Maynard's proto-surrealistic images, looking in grief-heavy places for revelation. The result is wonderfully strange and unsettling; this is Rich's most haunting collection yet."—Kathleen Flenniken
"Rich's gorgeous poems affix moments, both magnificent and minute. And in exquisite and playful poems, a pageant of a life in process develops before our eyes."—Oliver de la Paz
Susan Rich is the author of three previous collections of poetry. She lives in Seattle, Washington.
"In a central sequence, Rich explores nineteenth-century photographer Hannah Maynard's proto-surrealistic images, looking in grief-heavy places for revelation. The result is wonderfully strange and unsettling; this is Rich's most haunting collection yet."—Kathleen Flenniken
"Rich's gorgeous poems affix moments, both magnificent and minute. And in exquisite and playful poems, a pageant of a life in process develops before our eyes."—Oliver de la Paz
Susan Rich is the author of three previous collections of poetry. She lives in Seattle, Washington.
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Specificații
ISBN-13: 9781935210535
ISBN-10: 193521053X
Pagini: 108
Dimensiuni: 152 x 229 x 8 mm
Greutate: 0.16 kg
Editura: White Pine Press
Colecția White Pine Press
ISBN-10: 193521053X
Pagini: 108
Dimensiuni: 152 x 229 x 8 mm
Greutate: 0.16 kg
Editura: White Pine Press
Colecția White Pine Press
Notă biografică
Susan Rich is the author of three previous collections of poetry, The Alchemist’s Kitchen, a Finalist for the Foreword Prize and the Washington State Book Award; Cures Include Travel, and The Cartographer’s Tongue / Poems of the World, winner of the PEN USA Award for Poetry. She has received awards from Artist Trust, the Times Literary Supplement Award of London, and the Fulbright Foundation. Together with Brian Turner and Jared Hawkley, she is editor of The Strangest of Theatres: Poets Crossing Borders. Susan’s poems appear in the Antioch Review, Gettysburg Review, New England Review and Triquarterly. She lives and writes in Seattle, WA.
Cuprins
Clouds, Begin Here
It is so hard to say what the dead really want.
In the lost fires of the notebook, words stumble
down the columns of green and white paper.
In the notebook of the unknown index, blank
description, we lose our blue hours. Begin with forget
shore line, heart line, forgive me serum.
If we¿re lucky, the mind sits up straight
in our interior tree house, our house of sky,
the remodeled one car garage. Open the suitcase
of ink and erasures; let language spill out
in mid-air. Between ferryboat and bicycle,
between daybreak and meteor shower
we create something holy:
apples and crackers and quiet.
Invention of Everything Else
Once a man offered me his heart like a glass of water
how to accept or decline?
Sometimes all I speak is doubt
delineated by the double lines
of railway tracks; sometimes
I¿m an incomplete bridge, crayon red Xs extending
across a world map.
A man offers me his bed like an emergency
exit, a forklift, a raft.
The easy-to-read instructions
sequestered in the arms of his leather jacket.
Sometimes a woman needs
small habits, homegrown salad, good sex.
Instead, she cultivates cats and a cupcake maker,
attempts enlightenment¿ prays to leaf skeletons on her deck.
The woman and the man say yes ¿
say no, say maybe, perhaps.
Neither one know what they will do
to the other.
Perhaps they¿re acorns falling
on the roof, a Sunday paper, this all-embracing
ocean view.
Once a man offered his fortune
in drumbeats and song
tuned to some interior window; something buried in blue.
Cloud Pharmacy
How many apothecary drawers
could I fill with these deliberations?
The pharmacist¿s paper cone
parsing out a quarter cup
of love¿s resistant drug,
spoons measuring new prescriptions
for my uncertainty, heartsway, gesture.
Give me cobalt bottles
leftover from aunt iskäs cures,
albastrons of ointments, resins to resolve
the double-helix of desire inside of me.
Where is the votive, the vessel,
the slide rule calculation¿
to know how much good love
alchemically speaking is
good enough?
I want spindrift nights on swimmer¿s
thighs. I want an Egyptian
elevator inlaid in camphorwood and ivory;
a West African drumbeat, an eggnog, a god.
I want waves and summer all year long.
I want you. And I want more.
Geography IV
Of what is the earth¿s surface composed?
¿ Elizabeth Bishop, Geography III
The world is a little place ¿ a feather, a pebble, a spoon;
it turns to the left and taps its foot, a soldier signaling
to the rest of its platoon. The world doesn¿t know
it¿s a little world, thinks it¿s Greta Garbo in her Paris debut.
Watch as the world decorates half moons and cinnamon stars,
slips the Sound some islands to improve a stellar view.
Tonight the world wishes to sing what it means
to miss New Orleans; listens to the drowned hymns
of the Tchoupotulas while waiting on help,
recompense, a cat with umpteen kittens. Now the globe
pulls round again, scattering meaning in gold
rings of ramekins; a wizard of chemical breathing.
When invited to a soiree by this parched world,
down the Pinot Grigio while your inner life implodes
knowing nothing is as serene as it seems ~ the past
lit with menthol cigarettes; our futures just as unclean.
Endless Forms, More Beautiful
After a multiple exposure self-portrait of Hannah Maynard, c. 1894
So she keeps her herringbone hands busy with teacups and white flowers
and murmurs to no one what she will create. No nephew sawed in half
will interest her today, no devoted husband measuring buttes
but a suitcase of her own bright follies. The living room pulses on
and off with gunpowder expertly fitted for her flash. Or perhaps
the room becomes a kind of snowbound mausoleum exhibiting her grief
one winter afternoon. (It is quite impossible to know, but let¿s presume.)
No more inner voices to wake her from sleep, no more fussy wives
that arrive with Cornish meat pies and then hurry their bosoms home
to living daughters. In the frame, Hannahs stand here, sit there, bend over
to brush a bouquet of lilies from other Hannah¿s hair (point to center stage).
From house left and blocked house right solitary Hannahs float like smoke
rings into me. I should have known ¿ her concentric days, the artful dodge,
unwavering dark-skyed stare. Recognized my own pathology.
It is so hard to say what the dead really want.
In the lost fires of the notebook, words stumble
down the columns of green and white paper.
In the notebook of the unknown index, blank
description, we lose our blue hours. Begin with forget
shore line, heart line, forgive me serum.
If we¿re lucky, the mind sits up straight
in our interior tree house, our house of sky,
the remodeled one car garage. Open the suitcase
of ink and erasures; let language spill out
in mid-air. Between ferryboat and bicycle,
between daybreak and meteor shower
we create something holy:
apples and crackers and quiet.
Invention of Everything Else
Once a man offered me his heart like a glass of water
how to accept or decline?
Sometimes all I speak is doubt
delineated by the double lines
of railway tracks; sometimes
I¿m an incomplete bridge, crayon red Xs extending
across a world map.
A man offers me his bed like an emergency
exit, a forklift, a raft.
The easy-to-read instructions
sequestered in the arms of his leather jacket.
Sometimes a woman needs
small habits, homegrown salad, good sex.
Instead, she cultivates cats and a cupcake maker,
attempts enlightenment¿ prays to leaf skeletons on her deck.
The woman and the man say yes ¿
say no, say maybe, perhaps.
Neither one know what they will do
to the other.
Perhaps they¿re acorns falling
on the roof, a Sunday paper, this all-embracing
ocean view.
Once a man offered his fortune
in drumbeats and song
tuned to some interior window; something buried in blue.
Cloud Pharmacy
How many apothecary drawers
could I fill with these deliberations?
The pharmacist¿s paper cone
parsing out a quarter cup
of love¿s resistant drug,
spoons measuring new prescriptions
for my uncertainty, heartsway, gesture.
Give me cobalt bottles
leftover from aunt iskäs cures,
albastrons of ointments, resins to resolve
the double-helix of desire inside of me.
Where is the votive, the vessel,
the slide rule calculation¿
to know how much good love
alchemically speaking is
good enough?
I want spindrift nights on swimmer¿s
thighs. I want an Egyptian
elevator inlaid in camphorwood and ivory;
a West African drumbeat, an eggnog, a god.
I want waves and summer all year long.
I want you. And I want more.
Geography IV
Of what is the earth¿s surface composed?
¿ Elizabeth Bishop, Geography III
The world is a little place ¿ a feather, a pebble, a spoon;
it turns to the left and taps its foot, a soldier signaling
to the rest of its platoon. The world doesn¿t know
it¿s a little world, thinks it¿s Greta Garbo in her Paris debut.
Watch as the world decorates half moons and cinnamon stars,
slips the Sound some islands to improve a stellar view.
Tonight the world wishes to sing what it means
to miss New Orleans; listens to the drowned hymns
of the Tchoupotulas while waiting on help,
recompense, a cat with umpteen kittens. Now the globe
pulls round again, scattering meaning in gold
rings of ramekins; a wizard of chemical breathing.
When invited to a soiree by this parched world,
down the Pinot Grigio while your inner life implodes
knowing nothing is as serene as it seems ~ the past
lit with menthol cigarettes; our futures just as unclean.
Endless Forms, More Beautiful
After a multiple exposure self-portrait of Hannah Maynard, c. 1894
So she keeps her herringbone hands busy with teacups and white flowers
and murmurs to no one what she will create. No nephew sawed in half
will interest her today, no devoted husband measuring buttes
but a suitcase of her own bright follies. The living room pulses on
and off with gunpowder expertly fitted for her flash. Or perhaps
the room becomes a kind of snowbound mausoleum exhibiting her grief
one winter afternoon. (It is quite impossible to know, but let¿s presume.)
No more inner voices to wake her from sleep, no more fussy wives
that arrive with Cornish meat pies and then hurry their bosoms home
to living daughters. In the frame, Hannahs stand here, sit there, bend over
to brush a bouquet of lilies from other Hannah¿s hair (point to center stage).
From house left and blocked house right solitary Hannahs float like smoke
rings into me. I should have known ¿ her concentric days, the artful dodge,
unwavering dark-skyed stare. Recognized my own pathology.
Descriere
An exuberant exploration of a life in love and longing alerts us to enlivened possibilities of nostalgia and desire.