By Joanne Kyger
This number of Joanne Kyger's paintings unearths her as one of many significant experimenters, hybridizers, and visionaries of poetry. Kyger is a poet of position, with a robust voice-delicate, sleek, and not wasteful; her poems discover subject matters of friendship, love, group, and morality and draw on local American delusion in addition to Asian faith and philosophy. Kyger's love for poetry manifests itself in a grander scheme of consciousness-expansion and lesson, yet continually within the realm of the standard. Edited with a foreword by way of Michael Rothenberg, and with an creation by means of poet David Meltzer, this publication is a fabulous evaluation of a perfectly tough and significant poet.
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Extra resources for As Ever: Selected Poems
His mother steadies his cup. The child chants his pre-language accompaniment to the conversations of the aunts. His name is Connor. Connor, Connor! He runs to the edge of the concrete dock carrying his stuffed puppy by the ears. The longer I write, the smaller I grow quiet in the rivulets of sound from the street. If they toss me like the stone, I am content behind my camera learning to point the lens, to look at the body of the world. Click. No, cries Connor. No. Why resist? In my dream I am unable to help, comprehend, caught in weak flesh.
Women walk downtown holding their daughters' hands, or can if they're inclined, each generation adding a link to the chain. Women can work - or not - at the blessed repetitive tasks of the body, cleansing their flesh of the blood flow, a tender care required - in whatever spirit - at regular intervals. Women were girls, like boys, fast across the meadow, diving into the pond or carrying morning after morning the heavy buckets of salt water caught up from the animal sea. Blessed bone, ribs like his, flat brown belly, small nipples, and the growing muscles of the shoulders to l i f t .
Yes. Your fingers tap. I'm listening. Will you answer? Why mention trees? When the weather turned rain into ice, the leaves failed. So what? Every year leaves fail. The cycle. Birth to death. In the night the sound of cannon, and death everywhere. What did you see? Next morning, roots against the glass. Who's talking now and in familiar language? Get real. What's real is the broken crown. The trunk shattered. Was that storm worse than others? Yes and no. The wind's torque twisted open the tree's tibia.
As Ever: Selected Poems by Joanne Kyger