The Black Ocean: Crab Orchard Series in Poetry
Autor Brian Barkeren Limba Engleză Paperback – 17 mai 2011
In The Black Ocean, poet Brian Barker attempts to make sense of some of the darkest chapters in history while peering forward to what lies ahead as the world totters in the wake of human complacence. Unveiled here are ruminations on human torture, the Chernobyl disaster, the aftermath of Hurricane Katrina, and genocide against Native Americans. The ghosts of Lincoln, Poe, and Billie Holiday manifest from pages laden with grim prophecies and catastrophes both real and imagined. These hauntingly intense documentary poems reflect on the past in an attempt to approach it with more clarity and understanding, while offering blistering insight into the state of the world today. Barker touches upon the power of manipulation and class oppression; the depths of fear and the struggle for social justice; and reveals how failure to act—on the parts of both politicians and everyday citizens—can have the most devastating effects of all.
Throughout the volume looms the specter of the black ocean itself, a powerful metaphor for all our collective longings and despair, as we turn to face a menacing and uncertain future.
Lullaby for the Last Night on Earth
When at last we whisper, so long, so lonesome,
and watch our house on the horizon
go down like a gasping zeppelin of bricks,
we’ll turn, holding hands,
and walk the train tracks to the sea . . .
So sing me that song where a mountain falls
in love with an octopus, and one thousand fireflies
ricochet around their heads,
and I’ll dream we’re dancing in the kitchen one last time,
swaying, the window a waystation
of flaming leaves, the dogs shimmying
about our legs,
dragging their golden capes of rain . . .
O my critter, my thistle, gal-o-my-dreams,
lift your voice like an oar into the darkness,
for all the sad birds are falling down—
Nothing in this night is ours.
Throughout the volume looms the specter of the black ocean itself, a powerful metaphor for all our collective longings and despair, as we turn to face a menacing and uncertain future.
Lullaby for the Last Night on Earth
When at last we whisper, so long, so lonesome,
and watch our house on the horizon
go down like a gasping zeppelin of bricks,
we’ll turn, holding hands,
and walk the train tracks to the sea . . .
So sing me that song where a mountain falls
in love with an octopus, and one thousand fireflies
ricochet around their heads,
and I’ll dream we’re dancing in the kitchen one last time,
swaying, the window a waystation
of flaming leaves, the dogs shimmying
about our legs,
dragging their golden capes of rain . . .
O my critter, my thistle, gal-o-my-dreams,
lift your voice like an oar into the darkness,
for all the sad birds are falling down—
Nothing in this night is ours.
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Specificații
ISBN-13: 9780809330287
ISBN-10: 0809330288
Pagini: 80
Dimensiuni: 152 x 229 x 10 mm
Greutate: 0.16 kg
Editura: Southern Illinois University Press
Colecția Southern Illinois University Press
Seria Crab Orchard Series in Poetry
ISBN-10: 0809330288
Pagini: 80
Dimensiuni: 152 x 229 x 10 mm
Greutate: 0.16 kg
Editura: Southern Illinois University Press
Colecția Southern Illinois University Press
Seria Crab Orchard Series in Poetry
Notă biografică
Brian Barker teaches at the University of Colorado Denver, where he coedits the literary journal Copper Nickel. His first book of poems, The Animal Gospels, won the Tupelo Press Editors’ Prize and was published in 2006. Also the recipient of an Academy of American Poets Prize and the 2009 Campbell Corner Poetry Prize, Barker has published in a number of journals, including Poetry, Ploughshares, Agni, American Book Review, The Writer’s Chronicle, Indiana Review, and Pleiades.
Extras
VISIONS FOR THE LAST NIGHT ON EARTH
Then I saw the floodwaters recede, leaving a milky scum
scalloped on silos and billboards, and the eaves of farmhouses
were festooned with a mossy brown riverweed
that hung in the August heat like bankers' limp fingers,
and the drowned corn, sick from sewage and tidesuck,
reappeared like a washed-out green ocean of wilting speartips
that bloated fish rode into the moonlight,
and the lost dogs came down from the hills, still lost,
trotting, panting, a tremolo of swollen tongues, their mud-caked
undercarriages swarmed by squadrons of gnats
as dilapidated barns began disappearing at last, swallowed like secrets
by the muck, and the ghosts of handsome assassins
sat up in piles of hay and combed their pompadours
and muttered in Latin their last prayers
before stepping through trapdoors flung open
like flaps of skullskin to the skyblue sky of oblivion-
that same color of your panties, I thought, as you floated topless
across our bedroom in a wake of sparks, a vision sashaying
across the bottom of the sea, visions colliding, the sea rising, please forgive me
my terrors, love, for I saw your braided hair and imagined
a frayed rope lowered from a helicopter, or, worse,
the ropey penis of the horse a general sits in the shade
as bluebottle flies, querulous and fierce, baffle the air
above silhouettes bent digging in a field of clay.
For I watched the sunset so many evenings, holding your hand,
and thought of the combustible blood of an empire,
or lay awake in the long dark listening to your breathing
and imagined sad Abe Lincoln pacing our hallway, his arms folded
behind his back like a broken umbrella, the clock ticking,
the ravenblack sedans idling curbside in the suburbs
of America, watching closely, purring greedily,
as they gulped down the last starlight, dreaming of some other dawn.
IN THE CITY OF FALLEN REBELS
-after Jaime Sabines
Here comes the boy again, dragging his death
by a string. Here comes the gun he waves above his head.
Here comes the light raked loose
like salted slugs, how it fizzes over liquor bottles
and magazine racks, and he must feel it, yes,
like ulcers puckering his skin, for he hugs himself
with his other arm, high-stepping in place, trying to hold in
the filthy burst mattress of the soul.
But here it comes nonetheless! Christ, look at it!
It won't stop jumping out
to bang on the scuffed Plexiglas window
of heaven. Here come the angels,
they hear him, those starved revenants
trampling the riverbank of his mind. But the gods,
they refuse to blink, he's nothing more
than a speck of shit on the eyelash of infinity, they say,
spitting sideways into the dust,
though they come anyway, like Confederate marauders
spurring their wormy, wide-eyed horses
up from the shallow graves.
They're peat burnt and staunch, they're flashing their bleary sabers.
One has a face that keeps fuzzing out,
and one has biceps like a pit bull's flanks splattered with blood,
and when he shoots at them, wailing, bottles explode,
rum tumbles down shelves, trickles
toward the feet of Mrs. Wen.
Here she comes too, fumbling the keys,
trying to coax the register open.
Here come the five English words she knows,
flitting about her like flying mice.
Here come the gods again (they never give up),
and the boiling sargassum of blood she can't hold inside her chest,
as some fusty, ferruginous fog blows in
from the backside of the ghetto.
Here come the dead, they smell it, waking in vacant lots,
shoeless and soft in the weeds. Here come
the screwworms and roaches, the black ocean seething in its bowl
and a whole century like a ship on fire.
In the park, where the boy buys his tinfoil surprise,
the severed heads of history nod all night on their rotten branches.
He blows the gates. He sleeps
his dreamless sleep, curled fetal beneath a bench,
his eyelids blue and blotched with bruises.
Here comes the poet (What does he want?).
He's scared of the dark; he'd like to turn into a sparrow,
fly into a steeple, hide beneath a broken bell.
But a desiccated bat hangs at the back of his mind.
He keeps poking it with his pen until the godawful
gods come again (They never quit!).
Here they come, galloping across the river
of a dead king rising, surpliced, bearded in flames,
blowing their battered bugles.
They want a word with the boy, they say. They take him
into the trees. And there he goes, still half-asleep,
dragging his death by a string.
FIELD RECORDING, BILLIE HOLIDAY FROM THE FAR EDGE OF HEAVEN
Loverman, when I woke
we were banished
on a rooftop together,
the city sopped up by the sea.
The hours unfolded twice, and you
torqued skyward like Atlas holding up
the moon the whole lonely night.
I begged on those stars.
I sang, I aint got no change in my pocket,
Mister Trenchcoat, I aint got no galloping white horse
but they kept hammering in the attics,
they cried out like lions to their Lord . . .
Darling boy, we were drowning
in our own embrace,
and beneath those sodium flares
of sleep I kept dreaming
we were the lucky ones at last,
lifting off like two pelicans
that plummet for the same spangled fish.
Then I saw the floodwaters recede, leaving a milky scum
scalloped on silos and billboards, and the eaves of farmhouses
were festooned with a mossy brown riverweed
that hung in the August heat like bankers' limp fingers,
and the drowned corn, sick from sewage and tidesuck,
reappeared like a washed-out green ocean of wilting speartips
that bloated fish rode into the moonlight,
and the lost dogs came down from the hills, still lost,
trotting, panting, a tremolo of swollen tongues, their mud-caked
undercarriages swarmed by squadrons of gnats
as dilapidated barns began disappearing at last, swallowed like secrets
by the muck, and the ghosts of handsome assassins
sat up in piles of hay and combed their pompadours
and muttered in Latin their last prayers
before stepping through trapdoors flung open
like flaps of skullskin to the skyblue sky of oblivion-
that same color of your panties, I thought, as you floated topless
across our bedroom in a wake of sparks, a vision sashaying
across the bottom of the sea, visions colliding, the sea rising, please forgive me
my terrors, love, for I saw your braided hair and imagined
a frayed rope lowered from a helicopter, or, worse,
the ropey penis of the horse a general sits in the shade
as bluebottle flies, querulous and fierce, baffle the air
above silhouettes bent digging in a field of clay.
For I watched the sunset so many evenings, holding your hand,
and thought of the combustible blood of an empire,
or lay awake in the long dark listening to your breathing
and imagined sad Abe Lincoln pacing our hallway, his arms folded
behind his back like a broken umbrella, the clock ticking,
the ravenblack sedans idling curbside in the suburbs
of America, watching closely, purring greedily,
as they gulped down the last starlight, dreaming of some other dawn.
IN THE CITY OF FALLEN REBELS
-after Jaime Sabines
Here comes the boy again, dragging his death
by a string. Here comes the gun he waves above his head.
Here comes the light raked loose
like salted slugs, how it fizzes over liquor bottles
and magazine racks, and he must feel it, yes,
like ulcers puckering his skin, for he hugs himself
with his other arm, high-stepping in place, trying to hold in
the filthy burst mattress of the soul.
But here it comes nonetheless! Christ, look at it!
It won't stop jumping out
to bang on the scuffed Plexiglas window
of heaven. Here come the angels,
they hear him, those starved revenants
trampling the riverbank of his mind. But the gods,
they refuse to blink, he's nothing more
than a speck of shit on the eyelash of infinity, they say,
spitting sideways into the dust,
though they come anyway, like Confederate marauders
spurring their wormy, wide-eyed horses
up from the shallow graves.
They're peat burnt and staunch, they're flashing their bleary sabers.
One has a face that keeps fuzzing out,
and one has biceps like a pit bull's flanks splattered with blood,
and when he shoots at them, wailing, bottles explode,
rum tumbles down shelves, trickles
toward the feet of Mrs. Wen.
Here she comes too, fumbling the keys,
trying to coax the register open.
Here come the five English words she knows,
flitting about her like flying mice.
Here come the gods again (they never give up),
and the boiling sargassum of blood she can't hold inside her chest,
as some fusty, ferruginous fog blows in
from the backside of the ghetto.
Here come the dead, they smell it, waking in vacant lots,
shoeless and soft in the weeds. Here come
the screwworms and roaches, the black ocean seething in its bowl
and a whole century like a ship on fire.
In the park, where the boy buys his tinfoil surprise,
the severed heads of history nod all night on their rotten branches.
He blows the gates. He sleeps
his dreamless sleep, curled fetal beneath a bench,
his eyelids blue and blotched with bruises.
Here comes the poet (What does he want?).
He's scared of the dark; he'd like to turn into a sparrow,
fly into a steeple, hide beneath a broken bell.
But a desiccated bat hangs at the back of his mind.
He keeps poking it with his pen until the godawful
gods come again (They never quit!).
Here they come, galloping across the river
of a dead king rising, surpliced, bearded in flames,
blowing their battered bugles.
They want a word with the boy, they say. They take him
into the trees. And there he goes, still half-asleep,
dragging his death by a string.
FIELD RECORDING, BILLIE HOLIDAY FROM THE FAR EDGE OF HEAVEN
Loverman, when I woke
we were banished
on a rooftop together,
the city sopped up by the sea.
The hours unfolded twice, and you
torqued skyward like Atlas holding up
the moon the whole lonely night.
I begged on those stars.
I sang, I aint got no change in my pocket,
Mister Trenchcoat, I aint got no galloping white horse
but they kept hammering in the attics,
they cried out like lions to their Lord . . .
Darling boy, we were drowning
in our own embrace,
and beneath those sodium flares
of sleep I kept dreaming
we were the lucky ones at last,
lifting off like two pelicans
that plummet for the same spangled fish.
Cuprins
CONTENTS
Acknowledgments
Dragging Canoe Vanishes from the Bear Pit into
the Endless Clucking of the Gods
*
Visions for the Last Night on Earth 1
Poe Climbs Down from the Long Tapestry of Death to Command
an Army of Street Urchins Huddled in the Dusk
Lullaby for the Last Night on Earth
The Last Songbird
*
Gorbachev's Ubi Sunt from the Future That Soon Will Pass
Silent Montage with Late Reagan in Black and White
Love Poem for the Last Night on Earth
In the City of Fallen Rebels
*
Lost on the Lost Shores of New Orleans, They Dreamed Abraham
Lincoln Was the Magician of the Great Divide
Field Recording, Notes from the Machine
Visions for the Last Night on Earth
Field Recording, Billie Holiday from the Far Edge of Heaven
Nightmare for the Last Night on Earth
*
A Brief Oral Account of Torture Pulled Down Out of the Wind
Notes
Acknowledgments
Dragging Canoe Vanishes from the Bear Pit into
the Endless Clucking of the Gods
*
Visions for the Last Night on Earth 1
Poe Climbs Down from the Long Tapestry of Death to Command
an Army of Street Urchins Huddled in the Dusk
Lullaby for the Last Night on Earth
The Last Songbird
*
Gorbachev's Ubi Sunt from the Future That Soon Will Pass
Silent Montage with Late Reagan in Black and White
Love Poem for the Last Night on Earth
In the City of Fallen Rebels
*
Lost on the Lost Shores of New Orleans, They Dreamed Abraham
Lincoln Was the Magician of the Great Divide
Field Recording, Notes from the Machine
Visions for the Last Night on Earth
Field Recording, Billie Holiday from the Far Edge of Heaven
Nightmare for the Last Night on Earth
*
A Brief Oral Account of Torture Pulled Down Out of the Wind
Notes
Recenzii
"Barker creates a harrowing world threatened by the inescapability of its own complex, often dark history, a world on the brink of chaos and collapse. Though these poems are frequently dizzying and threatening, they are also distinguished by technical dexterity, sonic complexity, and a truly visionary sensibility. The Black Ocean confirms my belief that Brian Barker is one of the most ambitious and talented young poets at work in America today." -Kevin Prufer
"'Death is the mother of beauty,' Wallace Stevens contended, and Brian Barker's lovely, heart- wrenching poems glow with the vision, the poignant vanishing light, of last things. They scroll down the page with a lyric grace, a sacred rage, a spooky, apocalyptic power, and a visionary gleam."-Edward Hirsch, author of The Living Fire: New and Selected Poems
"From the commerce made of historical depredation to the fever dream of end times, Brian Barker plumbs to harrowing depths. Were the darkness unrelenting, it would be far easier to bear, and the poetry less courageous. These are not poems for the faint of heart. They are tribute to the cleansing power of the good hard gaze." -Linda Gregerson
"'Death is the mother of beauty,' Wallace Stevens contended, and Brian Barker's lovely, heart- wrenching poems glow with the vision, the poignant vanishing light, of last things. They scroll down the page with a lyric grace, a sacred rage, a spooky, apocalyptic power, and a visionary gleam."-Edward Hirsch, author of The Living Fire: New and Selected Poems
"From the commerce made of historical depredation to the fever dream of end times, Brian Barker plumbs to harrowing depths. Were the darkness unrelenting, it would be far easier to bear, and the poetry less courageous. These are not poems for the faint of heart. They are tribute to the cleansing power of the good hard gaze." -Linda Gregerson