By Christopher M. Hannan
The waters broke from the void sooner than first light,
a divinity ripping during the trembling flesh
of marshes and the levees’ outdated clay thighs,
protecting each mile of St. Bernard Parish.
homes with their cement slabs have floated
gentle because the rinds of watermelons you ate as a boy
and chucked into Lake Catherine, swelled to overflowing
via the god that surged into the Rigolets estuary
and left an afterbirth of candy crude leaked
from foundered tanks. autos cling like carrion
birds at the maximum branches and torn roofs. Leached
of dust and flood waters, the homes we go cry out
damaged window panes, duct-taped refrigerators, and a stillness
that leaves us at the lifeless grass of this
woman’s domestic, like such a lot of thrown bones.
Read Online or Download Alluvial cities PDF
Best poetry books
Translated William O'Daly
In the advent to this bilingual quantity, the translator reminds us: "Neruda spent the final 40 years of his lifestyles making himself harmful together with his poetry. .. He got here to determine poetry as an ethical act, with own and communal tasks. " yet right here, Neruda is at his playful and irreverent top. no matter if writing a party, allegory, lament or self-parody, the poet proclaims the powerful feel of an improvisational spirit. Highlighted as "Essential" via Library Journal.
Nolan's creation situates this quantity in the Nobel Laureates's oeuvre with sensitivity. If translation is between different things-- the paintings of creating offerings, Nolan's offerings are always being concerned and considerate. Neruda strangley has now not fared good in American translation. .. and even though we quibble with Nolan's offerings right here and there, he brings the readability of a poet to those translations.
—Small Press, Dec. 1988
The works of this award-winning poet and novelist are wealthy with the language and affects of 2 cultures: these of the Dominican Republic of her youth and the the USA of her early life and maturity. they've got formed her writing simply as they've got formed her lifestyles. In those seventy-five autobiographical poems, Alvarez's transparent voice sings out in each line.
This quantity offers a variety of items from a world-class Latinist which monitors either his diversified pursuits as a student and his constant predicament with Augustan texts, their language and literary texture. the diversity of articles, written over greater than 3 many years and together with one formerly unpublished piece, covers a similar hooked up territory - principally Virgil, Horace, and elegy.
To his legions of lovers, Charles Bukowski was—and remains—the necessary counterculture icon. A hard-drinking wild guy of literature and a obdurate outsider to the poetry international, he wrote unflinchingly approximately booze, paintings, and girls, in uncooked, street-tough poems whose fact has struck a chord with generations of readers.
- Robert Francis: Collected Poems 1936-1976
- The Bad Wife Handbook (Wesleyan Poetry Series)
- Tales of Glass Town, Angria, and Gondal: Selected Early Writings (Oxford World's Classics)
- The Displaced of Capital (Phoenix Poets)
- I Wrote Stone: The Selected Poetry of Ryszard Kapuscinski
Additional resources for Alluvial cities
I’m just tearin’ myself up ‘fore I’m swallowed by the ground. JOHN HENRY When I was just a little baby boy you could hold me on the palm of your hand. But I grew hard as bone and as big as mountain stone and became the greatest steel drivin’ man. With my nine-pound hammer I can terrify the gods when I break the earth foundations of their sky. If I came to Olympus I’d crush them crags right down to dust or I’d lay down my hammer and I’d die. My steel makes mountains tremble like the dying of a god, and sparks explode like thorns around my head.
Cause stone and memory keep the gods in their rock temples and rites, just as bones of dead men petrify in earth, leaving relics of their lives. I feel the pain of Priam begging for his broken son. He had to see with granite eyes to grasp what Hector had become. And then he drank with Hector’s killer knowing his son’s flesh had touched a Muse who’d make’em into gods in songs, like my St. James Infirmary Blues. So sixteen coal black horses to pull that rubber-tied hack; like Hector bouncin’ behind Achilles, she’s gone; only my song can bring her back.
We bounce in a lake skiff, Pete and me, twenty miles south-southeast to Breton Island, twenty-gauge barrels broke down in our laps. We beach the boat and mount the ancient silt where black mangroves and wax myrtles stand taut as our young skin and butch-waxed hair. There’s more tail shaking these bushes than the houses on Conti. I light a smoke and pull on Pete’s bourbon. The shotgun swings between my knees and I can almost feel the choke explode at the thought: I’ll shoot every rabbit I see. Out here the brackish marsh turns briny like perfumed skin sweats when you rub it.
Alluvial cities by Christopher M. Hannan