By Susan Stewart
Winner of the 2003 nationwide booklet Critics Circle Award within the classification of poetry.
In her long-awaited fourth e-book of poetry, Susan Stewart supplies us a chain of fantastic, numinous poems approximately truths realized with the brain yet let out in the course of the senses. Modeled at the seventeenth-century perform of century varieties, or books of 1 hundred pages, Columbarium expresses the bond among the residing and the lifeless in voices of mum or dad to baby, lover to cherished, and mortal to the gods. The e-book arrives as a meditative present from one among our most precious poet-critics. Stewart frames her Columbarium with 4 poems reminiscent of the elements-to their damaging and inventive features and to their roles within the human and greater than human worlds. either nest and crypt, the book's heart holds an alphabet of "shadow georgics," poems of guide and doubt that hyperlink wisdom and the subconscious. Questions of mortality, of goodness and pain, and of the fragility and tool of reminiscence animate those poems. in a single poem an apple calls the narrator again from the useless to relish the echoes of its kinds in fable and literature. In one other, the seeds of a pear tree exhibit the fundamental harmony that makes the variety of life possible.Stewart's Columbarium is either a memorial to the lifeless and a testomony to existence.
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Extra resources for Columbarium (Phoenix Poets)
I could be God and walk over to them, purchase one pack of cigarettes and destroy the cosmos. And now enter the police: one of them with arthritic fingers that look like calcified commas holds his nightstick at the ready. I could be God. ” I could say, “They need you,” and remind them that each piece of sausage separates light from darkness. But I don’t. They bore me. I turn and stare at horses. 38 T H I N K I N G O F S T. J U D E ’ S F R O M FA R AWAY Nothing is more terrible than snow falling in a mosque, no white upon white, no hollow cotton.
They all knew them by heart by now, but still liked the sound of their father’s voice and the look on his face while he read. His wife used to say, He smiles like a windowpane being battered by hail, for a windowpane knows loyalty, knows when it has been victorious. A windowpane is a soldier that never sleeps. But tonight the burzhuika was low. The luxury called for more fuel. How many years had it taken him to arrest the courage needed to write down his rage? And now the words again would save him.
J U D E ’ S F R O M FA R AWAY Nothing is more terrible than snow falling in a mosque, no white upon white, no hollow cotton. Beyond Arafat and Bialik — white and frozen — falls something damp and starved — I know I’ve seen it. Nothing is more terrible than snow falling in a church where The False Parade of Cufflinks recite The Psalm of the Slipped Disc. Nothing is more terrible than snow falling on bookshelves where charlatanry sighs between statuettes and bookends. For the sluggish illiterates who cannot repair a ceiling, and for the minaret and steeple, nothing is more terrible than snow.
Columbarium (Phoenix Poets) by Susan Stewart