MxT

MxT
Автор книги: id книги: 1619824     Оценка: 0.0     Голосов: 0     Отзывы, комментарии: 0 1451,72 руб.     (15,83$) Читать книгу Купить и скачать книгу Купить бумажную книгу Электронная книга Жанр: Зарубежные стихи Правообладатель и/или издательство: Ingram Дата добавления в каталог КнигаЛит: ISBN: 9781770563759 Скачать фрагмент в формате   fb2   fb2.zip Возрастное ограничение: 0+ Оглавление Отрывок из книги

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"Sina Queyras is a poet to read and reckon with."— Lambda Literary Review MxT , or «Memory x Time,» is one of the formulas acclaimed poet Sina Queyras posits as a way to measure grief. These poems mourn the dead by turning memories over and over in their hands, by invoking other poets, by appropriating science, by studying the history of elegy. Devastating, cheeky, allusive, hallucinatory: this is Queyras at her most powerful. All the gods know is destinations. I have raisedA glass, my eye, your hook. Let's face it the worldIs a shrinking place and hungry: too much griefTo feed. I float away from you on hard Covers. I step out on the stacked hours. WordsIf they were soil how I would throw them back into theCompost pile and wait for spring. Those «this is howIt is,» speeches appear and later diamonds soft as bullets. I went to the library looking to scaffold my thoughts.Sure, now you say Lucretius. Intelligence is so oftenHindsight. Outside Holly Golightly's townhouseThere are taxis. The end of me, or you, is of no concern. Frederick Seidel anoints me with the head of his penis.It is soft as a chamois and spreads like egg across my scalp. Sina Queyras is the author of the Lambda Award–winning Lemon Hound , Expressway (shortlisted for the Governor General's Award), and the novel Autobiography of Childhood (shortlisted for the Amazon First Novel Award). She often writes for the Poetry Foundation and runs the online journal Lemon Hound (Lemonhound.com).

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Sina Queyras. MxT

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About This Book

MxT, or ‘Memory x Time,’ is one of the formulas acclaimed poet Sina Queyras posits as a way to measure grief. These poems mourn the dead by turning memories over and over like an old coin, by invoking other poets, by appropriating the language of technology, of instruction, of diagram, of electrical engineering, and of elegy itself. Devastating, cheeky, allusive, hallucinatory: this is Queyras at her most powerful.

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How many shapes will you visit me in, Death? How many gestures – each a stitch in the belly. The entire woodland echoes with your filthy mouth, the neon tree, the leaf flickering a sequin in green velour, my flickering rock, my soft bowl, my leafy gasket, you bring me thoughts of the purest vials of amphetamine. You burn like the skin of a spider, laugh with the bounce of a rabbit, and yes, I do remember Spanish Banks, the city a diorama in Le Creuset, and later, burning your prescriptions in a cucumber mist, that heron appearing suddenly, so casual in his faded Chelsea coat, his prehistoric beak and yellow eye watching as I burned enough OxyContin to tile a small bathroom.

Sappho says in the house of song there shall be no mourning, but all song is mourning. All shapes reflect absence; I have collected all the bits of soap, every trace that can still float, and strung them from the rafters.

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