Radiance of Pigs Poems

Radiance of Pigs Poems
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  • ISBN-13: 9780375704345
  • ISBN: 0375704345
  • Publisher: Knopf Doubleday Publishing Group


Rice, Stan


Doing Being Those who would know the emotional quality Cannot ignore Pound's ear, his timing. And I left My son in the dorm room. Kissed his whiskered Babyskin cheek, and blew him another. As he Walked off with two girls named Elizabeth. Or ignore his raptor's eye, or forgive him His monomanias, and the light of his Mind like the light on wavelets that cannot Cohere or reach shore. This is what Ezra Pound means to me on the day after I leave My son at Brown University and sit in this Room in New York wondering what to do next. Fixed in one place like the wavelets that Imitate livingness. Is this modern enough? Anne, you hedge-full-of-lightning-bugs, When I close my eyes I can see you. The sparkling Behind eyelids, who is it? Now She is I, the ordinal, whipping the horses To a lather as I tremble in the haycart Behind her that tips on two wheels at the Precipice. In dreams she lashes the horses. And Forever the corn smells of sun as I walk into it To urinate. What happened in time Stays in time. Now even our images are entangled. Root out the horses, they have Grown tendrils from their steel shoes and Though my books are in no bookstores, Root out the horses. This is the Second Day. There stand the carriage horses. They tread Their golden droppings. Some people pass Holding maps to their noses. That horse Is the color of rust in sun. They could Not pull fireplaces, or orange coals and iron. That would take Homer, Winslow. He's at the Met now. Let's go over. Here we are. This Is dangerous. In the painting of the fox in the snow Are the world's best crows. There is Green in their blackness. Then there's the Watercolor of the leaves and the oranges. And the one of the fogbank creeping To strand the rowboat from the mothership. Faux forces Thrash the black water to foam. But Im Disappointed. He is not our Vermeer. I bet Hopper liked him. Now let's go buy Some neat clothes. Of course we dont Need Them. But the salesgirl wears flesh Skipants, butchlength blond hair, and eyes Crystalized in Antarctica. Save me! In Homer's green net of death I struggle like A wig in a washing machine. And then the Moment is over. And only her profile in the Mirror as she hands my credit card back to me. Rapunzel, reach down your little hands, too. It is troubling to me that our greatest songster Was crazy. This, the transitional century. None other such swift change. And The gleaming at the box edge as the lid Is lifted. Angels, monsters, in coitus. The box Hot as a lightbulb. From in it, labor-pain screams Muffled by mother of pearl. To Know the emotional quality, lest grief Break the egg of the skull. Irrational, The songster's transitions, but also like Those of the waves. Oh, really? Now night Has fully fallen on New York. The streetlamps Shiver in Queens over the invisible East River. Chris in Providence. Anne in Chicago. And My future shorter now, though the babies In strollers look the same age as ever. Night is Earth's shadow on itself. One of Winslow's Crows drinks from a downspout in New Orleans, Whether witnessed or not. In the broken glass Shade of a streetlamp in Central Park a bird Builds her nest, the lightbulb for warmth. Sparrows fall as often as leaves and God is Distracted to madness. Only the nazis kept excellent Records. Behold! They are the golfers in lightning. Three days passed. Jesus rose on a seashell, Hand shielding vulva, at last, masculine. The only religion to start with a murder, Said Anne. I dont get it. The babe in the stroller, Its eyes liquid nickels. Forgive it? Two fawns Stiffen at streamside. Spots of sun In their fur. They have come down to drink From the stream I am squatting in. The doe Mother, also, rigid. Moment of wholeness.[read more]

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