Monday, March 31, 2003

Yay Iris!

Reading some poems by Pattie McCarthy, whose bk of (h)rs models itself on the structure of the ornate medieval prayerbooks after which McCarthy named the volume. I'm not sure whether I adore the poems or think they're overly pretentious and difficult. Some of both, I think. The best lines show the reader a melange of fragments from a lost century, reassembled like stained glass in a window or like Roman marble in an Italian church. One thinks of Eliot ("these fragments we have shored against our ruins") with a less bitter eye and a tendency to stream out of consciousness.


Heloise, your feathers choke me. crowded skyline stories. a desire to be renowned for stillness yet she is manifested perpetually in grievous motion. while absent-minded singing is the most comforting sound - if nothing brightens soon I'll take my libretto and go home. its skin romantic-sized : melancholy anatomized. an elaborate penance for having been that girl. literally for what not why - her jetty amulet fallen weep a garland for a brook. torn in tatters, apropos. black, pink, oil-lily blue alternate in wakes and shake fog from your hair. something secret between, inappropriate but not terribly so. that's the way, always. astrolabe: a pen and spindle. -Pattie McCarthy, from "None"

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