By Anna Rabinowitz
Anna Rabinowitz's voice, which levels from reflective to prophetic, from passionate to wry, shapes and reshapes language to accomplish the partial, retrieve the misplaced, and salvage what is still while the human physique and the our bodies of family members, tradition, and heritage threaten to break down. those are poems that confront loss and have a good time survival in an international that's "context and college, icon and diehard, push and pull, conceived and keeping on."
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It's bound to drive us crazycircling, forever circling, stalking a center or close. 2. Alphabets act with agility Before assonance, alliteration, Consonance, anaphora or other Devices dramatize a dilemma Equal to our very existence. Few of us find fault in Grammars geared to Hieroglyphs and hortatory Incantations composed of Juxtapositions of Knowledge-based, Language-driven, Meaning-ridden Notations that claim to Page 53 Organize our thinking. Perhaps the Very thought of a new approach to Words threatens us with being Xed out, exiled from Yesteryears and yesterdays, from Zeroing in on A to Zed the same old way.
For Lynda Sandhaus Page 54 Art-Crazy Old Man Even as a ghost My spirit will want to roam The fields of summer Hokusai Demanding there be no shadow, no wake to the racing line, he flew, place to place, 93 times, flew on his pots of paint, in his garrulous hands brushes, paper, flew, body of wind, borer into secret things, in dread of leaving merely a blot, with pigment strings bound the passing world cranes, herons flushed from the reeds, rain, sparrows swept to a wind-tossed hat, geishas at rest, elbows bent, toes ardently curled.
He climbed up six stories to be with her, to share coffee, under the rainbow of her recollection where consonants, shifty vowels inhabit lifetimes no matter how brief, poor, or abandoned by language, no matter how uncertain our knowledge of the borders of understanding, because, let's face it, he said, we're all squatters in the desert, on fields, in woods, we are squatters who casually slip into the robe of the same story, let folds of fabric fall around the borders of our bodies, around our necks, down our arms, past elbows of desire to familiar ground where language reminds us we stand erect with opposable thumbs, clothed in habit that prevails regardless of fashion, much as nuns in their habits, at ease, spread their skirts, kneel, even squat before things not given to them to understand, beyond the language of reason, committed to faith, while, relentlessly, history goes on repeating itself as if it had never happened before, elbowing everything along the way into exile within borders.
At the site of inside out by Anna Rabinowitz