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Stay, Illusion: Poemsby Lucie Brock-broido
Synopses & Reviews
You Have Harnessed Yourself Ridiculously To This World
Tell the truth I told me When I couldn’t speak.
Sorrow’s a barbaric art, crude as a Viking ship Or a child
Who rode a spotted pony to the lake away from summer
In the 1930s Toward the iron lung of polio.
According to the census I am unmarried And unchurched.
The woman in the field dressed only in the sun.
Too far gone to halt the Arctic Cap’s catastrophe, big beautiful
Blubbery white bears each clinging to his one last hunk of ice.
I am obliged, now, to refrain from dying, for as long as it is possible.
For whom left am I first?
We have come to terms with our Self
Like a marmoset getting out of her Great Ape suit.
Don’t do that when you’re dead like this, I said,
Arguably still squabbling about the word inarguably.
I haunt Versailles, poring through the markets of the medieval.
Mostly meat to be sold there. Mutton hangs
Like laundry pinkened on its line.
And gold! —a chalice with a cure for living in it.
We step over the skirt of an Elizabeth.
Red grapes, a delicacy, each peeled for us—each sheath
The vestment of a miniature priest, disrobed.
A sister is an Old World sparrow placed in a satin shoe.
The weakling’s saddle is worn down from just too much sad attitude.
No one wants to face the “opaque reality” of herself.
For the life of me.
I was made American. You must consider this.
Whatever suffering is insufferable is punishable by perishable.
In Vienne, the rabbit Maurice is at home in the family cage.
I ache for him, his boredom and his solitude.
On suffering and animals, inarguably, they do.
I miss your heart, my heart.
For A Snow Leopard in October
Stay, little ounce, here in
Fleece and leaf with me, in the evermore
Where swans trembled in the lake around our bed of hay and morning
Came each morning like a felt cloak billowing
Across the most pale day. It was the color of a steeple disappearing
In an old Venetian sky. Or of a saint tamping the grenadine
Of his heavy robes before the Blessing of the Animals.
I’ve heard tell of men who brought Great Pyrenees, a borzoi, or
Some pocket mice, baskets of mourning doves beneath their wicker lids,
A chameleon on a leash from the Prussian circuses,
And from the farthest Caucasus, some tundra wolves in pairs.
In a meadow I had fallen
As deep in sleep as a trilobite in the red clay of the centuries.
Even now, just down our winding road, I can hear the children blanketing
Themselves to sleep in leaves from maple trees.
No bad dreams will come to them I know
Because once, in the gone-ago, I was a lynx as well, safe as a tiger-iris
In its silt on the banks of the Euphrates, as you were. Would they take
You now from me, like Leonardo’s sleeve disappearing in
The air. And when I woke I could not wake
You, little sphinx, I could not keep you here with me. Anywhere, I could not bear to let you go. Stay here
In our clouded bed of wind and timothy with me.
Lie here with me in snow.
"Gorgeous and grim, elaborate yet forthright about the causes (and the effects) of its sadness, this fourth collection from Brock-Broido (Trouble in Mind) spins, drapes, and sculpts its virtuosic figures around the ideas and emotions of mourning. Often Brock-Broido commemorates her father, remembering him on his own, in her family, in conjunction with her own past selves: 'If my own voice falters,' one poem begins, 'tell them hubris was my way of adoring you.' (Her title quotes Hamlet, addressing his father's ghost.) Long lines deliquesce; long titles and longer sentences mix ceremonial beauty with self-reproach, not only in the many poems that touch on the poet's family but also in the standouts that remember other events, not least the executions of Tookie Williams and other victims of the American death penalty. Part tapestry, part astronomy, part dollhouse, the metaphorical verve that has made Brock-Broido influential — and sometimes controversial — remains abundant: Brock-Broido envisions herself once 'In a poplin nightgown and my mallow-color shoes,// With all my lionlikes about me,' and again with 'my own ivory hillocks, my toy/ Pram filled with slippery mice, my own mares fetlock-deep in squalls/ Of snow.' And yet — even more than in her previous book (which remembered her mother) — Brock-Broido can grow stark, unornamented, directly moving, too. A poem about a dying body asks, 'Put your hands/ Into the sheets and tell me where the needles are,' and a fine elegy for the poet Liam Rector concludes, simply, 'Would that our Liam were living still.'" Publishers Weekly (Starred Review) Copyright PWxyz, LLC. All rights reserved.
The much anticipated volume of poems from acclaimed poet Lucie Brock-Broido--a pioneering collection that brings her work, and our understanding of the broken but beautiful world she inhabits, to a whole new level.
In these stirring, long-lined poems, we meet a poet as gifted and dangerous as ever, a poet with an unflinching, ironic, and unique vision. As Brock-Broido puts it, she has, by now, "contracted the habit of believing in the interior world." Yet, despite the plaintive siren call of that interior, this most restless and powerful of American poets asserts: "I am of a fine mind to worship the visible world, the woo and pitch and sign of it." And in this collection, she does just that, striking out through gorgeous vistas of the seeable and knowable, drawing us into a stunning new way of perceiving, both haunting and playful, where we experience fresh understandings of our great loves and our great foolishness, and the often invisible ways these things might move us, in the end, to "still have plenty heart."
About the Author
Lucie Brock-Broido is the author of three previous collections of poetry, A Hunger, The Master Letters, and Trouble in Mind, as well as the editor of the poems of Thomas James, Letters to a Stranger. A volume of Brock-Broido’s selected poems, Soul Keeping Company was published in the U.K. She is Director of Poetry in the School of the Arts at Columbia University and lives in New York City and in Cambridge, Massachusetts.
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