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So Much Synth
Azioni libro
Inizia a leggere- Editore:
- Copper Canyon Press
- Pubblicato:
- Apr 11, 2016
- ISBN:
- 9781619321557
- Formato:
- Libro
Descrizione
"Shaughnessy's particular genius . . . is utterly poetic, but essayistic in scope."The New Yorker
"Brenda Shaughnessy's work is a good place to start for any passionate woman feeling daunted by poetry." Cosmopolitan
"Shaughnessy's voice is smart, sexy, self-aware, hip . . . consistently wry, and ever savvy."Harvard Review
Subversions of idiom and cliché punctuate Shaughnessy's fourth collection as she approaches middle age and revisits the memories, romances, and music of adolescence. So Much Synth is a brave and ferocious collection composed of equal parts femininity, pain, pleasure, and synthesizer. While Shaughnessy tenderly winces at her youthful excesses, we humbly catch glimpses of our own.
From "Never Ever":
Late is a synonym for dead which is a euphemism
for ever. Ever is a double-edged word,
at once itself and its own opposite: always
and always some other time.
In the category of cleave, then. To cut and to cling to,
somewhat mournfully
Brenda Shaughnessy was born in Okinawa, Japan and grew up in Southern California. She is the author of three books of poetry, including Human Dark with Sugar, winner of the James Laughlin Award and finalist for the National Book Critics Circle Award, and Our Andromeda, which was a New York Times Book Review "100 Notable Books of 2013." She is an assistant professor of English at Rutgers University, Newark, and lives in Brooklyn, New York.
Informazioni sul libro
So Much Synth
Descrizione
"Shaughnessy's particular genius . . . is utterly poetic, but essayistic in scope."The New Yorker
"Brenda Shaughnessy's work is a good place to start for any passionate woman feeling daunted by poetry." Cosmopolitan
"Shaughnessy's voice is smart, sexy, self-aware, hip . . . consistently wry, and ever savvy."Harvard Review
Subversions of idiom and cliché punctuate Shaughnessy's fourth collection as she approaches middle age and revisits the memories, romances, and music of adolescence. So Much Synth is a brave and ferocious collection composed of equal parts femininity, pain, pleasure, and synthesizer. While Shaughnessy tenderly winces at her youthful excesses, we humbly catch glimpses of our own.
From "Never Ever":
Late is a synonym for dead which is a euphemism
for ever. Ever is a double-edged word,
at once itself and its own opposite: always
and always some other time.
In the category of cleave, then. To cut and to cling to,
somewhat mournfully
Brenda Shaughnessy was born in Okinawa, Japan and grew up in Southern California. She is the author of three books of poetry, including Human Dark with Sugar, winner of the James Laughlin Award and finalist for the National Book Critics Circle Award, and Our Andromeda, which was a New York Times Book Review "100 Notable Books of 2013." She is an assistant professor of English at Rutgers University, Newark, and lives in Brooklyn, New York.
- Editore:
- Copper Canyon Press
- Pubblicato:
- Apr 11, 2016
- ISBN:
- 9781619321557
- Formato:
- Libro
Informazioni sull'autore
Correlati a So Much Synth
Anteprima del libro
So Much Synth - Brenda Shaughnessy
fast.
I. EDGEHOLE
McQueen Is Dead. Long Live McQueen
There were seven colors of mourning,
one was lilac. That kind of blossom
always has its crowd, fanned out, surrounded
by crushing likeness, smell of itself.
Fabric has to breathe,
at least 2 percent, like skin.
A little milkfat, elastin
even in the gravest print.
Not knowing how to grieve can poison
like a directionless dart. And although fabric
has been known to swirl
and clasp, be clasped—
without mother
there’s only art.
To hug the body: a swath, anathema,
magical, ’70s lace and spacedust,
all too far gone
to truly love. But to twist it, to learn
to hate-want. To sway, tear, burrow,
be borrowed,
everybody’s animal.
To float like water seeking its own,
stampede like buffalo, seeking its hide.
Face painted on torso on horsehair
on chesty silk it’s a deathmask
for the stigmata slashes
of the model’s body.
I don’t think I understand what studying is.
I listen, I read, I remember, I absorb.
I let myself be moved and changed.
Is that studying?
Never five-fingered,
you never use them all,
gloves will be like hooves,
split-footed hand-stitched.
When concept perceived—a womanly gist, let’s say,
or a curve of mind—is more than itself (surpassing,
all maw), I make it part of me. I take it in,
drink a corrosive. I let it overtake me,
change everything it can,
lip to tip to rim.
My eyes just drink the fabric that covers
each surface of this world.
Suck up the plastic
through a polished straw.
Everything’s inspiration: trees reflected
in windows on buildings, distorted buses,
endless frames, all too glass,
so much lens, textures so tall,
and once you start to see things this way,
vision’s a performance, shocking
and true after all these centuries,
a Shakespearean volta, like nectar
is poison to the occasional
queen bee.
Everything actually is blurred,
not just how you see.
Glasses and shoes are solutions
to problems that are real problems,
that of blurred world,
that of touching the ground.
A glass corset for the heart
to see out its chest. For without
glasses, the eye better sees
the wind, by feeling it and closing
against its grains,
its grasses.
For without shoes, my feet become
shoes. When I am really feeling,
I get very tired, I fall asleep
for the seventeenth time
on the unfinished skirt
of glass eyes and lemon
zest hemmed first,
grown last.
I experience the world as infinite
invertedness: no wholes broken,
just potential fragments straining, skull-like,
at the seams. Anything could give.
But no, just takes
and takes and takes.
I’ve been trying to write the words,
"I cried. Cried really
and wetly, and for good." Old-fashioned
writing with intense excitement:
the spell of quill
and ink spill, quelled.
What is beautiful, what is terrifying,
what is absurd in me?
Every possibility that colors
are believable, various—
not that mirage
I thought I’d seen—
and can be held apart as unreal,
too exterior, distinct from each
other wildly as sparks to seaweed
or flower to meteor.
It collapsed, can’t draw it,
can’t cut it out of itself.
There is no color but what’s already
inside the eye, no power
or invention or new way to wake up
in the morning
outside the seeing
mechanism,
our own orbs. Yet I can’t see myself.
I can never see you again.
I can only see from inside my skull
and when I look down
I close everything
not just my eyes.
I wrap my own tender nether flesh
in calfskin leather so buttery,
melted back
together
like so: a newborn softened
in its own mother’s milk.
I awoke in a panic (no ma no ma) to the smallest day yet.
I dreamed I already
dreamed all the dreams I’d get.
This morning I dressed
in my last dress’s
last dress,
fit only for a genteel gothic
murder, covered up well—airtight,
would only fit the stabbed one,
after bloodlet.
Then, like a glove.
Who wears it and where?
I will, from the bed to the chair.
Headrest, clotheshorse.
Designer and model: mutually orbiting
the best metaphor for bodiless