By Debora Greger
From the name poem:
pink as lifeless shrimp, the unborn curls in its tide pool--seed pearl
whose mom lusters over irritant love it's too past due to dislodge;
little anemone, shrinking from contact. So and holds separate what it so much heavily binds.
"Ms. Greger's poems happen on the aspect of come across among the brain and the area of subject. . . . And it's the resistance of the true and the expanding urgency the poet feels in attempting to extinguish her solitude . . . that make those poems emotional."--The ny instances booklet Review
Originally released in 1985.
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Additional info for And (Princeton Princeton Series of Contemporary Poets) (Princeton Legacy Library)
That branch I ducked, spar swinging to cuff or bolster, my father bending over me, demonstrative as the blanket, the blank sky. On a conducting tour, Mendelssohn was approached by a minor official, once a composer himself, who asked if the orchestra could play something by his father. Mendelssohn asked his name. "Mozart," the official replied. 3 Leaves of ice broaden on the lily pond until a dog can run a tufted duck across it. Wind's shakedown rattles the beds and sour kumquats surrendered scatter from trees splayed against the wall for warmth.
Dream Lectures 1 DOORMAN ON PROPERTIES OF CLOSURE As you, dear reader, would have been, in the time of servants, cinching a lady into her stays, tugging too hard as she hugged a bedpost— with the same eager ambivalence, grasp that a poem might seem to lay itself down for you to peel veils and husks of outer- and underwear, heartless as an onion. Hooks and eyes crowding at plackets—how the metal tongue waggles out of the last hole, cocky, revelation failing such ardor, your eyes smarting at their own sweet, diligent closing.
BLACK SEA Is every story underpinned by sex or death? Weigh the black sea buoying a steamer aimed to miss the dock, its engines killed, so that the current will drag it home—just surface drift over what plumbs deeper: past sea urchins and brittle stars, past diving bells, past bottom-feeders rooting in the muck of the continental shelf, down where no part of light but blue strains and it giving out, phosphorescent squid trail fitful constellations over abyssal hills and plains. Depth inky with greater depth, here lies sleep to submerge in rather than be touched through nightgown, through watertight diving dress, be loosed of weighted breastplate and boots and claimed by the slick of surface, hauled into someone's arms like catch or rescue.
And (Princeton Princeton Series of Contemporary Poets) (Princeton Legacy Library) by Debora Greger