By Don Bogen
An Algebra is an interwoven choice of 8 sequences and 16 person poems, the place pictures and words recur in new contexts, connecting and postponing options, feelings and insights. through turns, the poems bounce from the general public realm of city decay and outsourcing to the intimacies of relatives lifestyles, from a highway mime to a haunting dream, from elegy to lyric evocation. Wholeness and brokenness intertwine within the publication; glimpsed styles and startling disjunctions force its explorations.
An Algebra is a piece of fixing equivalents, a look for stability in an international of transformation and loss. it's a brilliantly developed, relocating ebook via a poet who has accomplished a brand new point of innovative expression and ability.
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Extra info for An Algebra (Phoenix Poets)
I'd listen to the soft tenor blows expand out then come back short through the long afternoon's gold light. Stephen Dedalus hears and registers nearly every sound in those portions of his life Joyce gives us, his world more sound than sight, the pick, pack, pock, puck of the cricket bats. In the seventies I would sing I Am Woman booking down K Street in a plaid flannel shirt, jeans, workers' boots, Page 8 in the city from the commune, but this morning I sang O What a Beautiful Morning because it was.
You hum the attenuated pleasures of the fading beech, the bleaching pleasures of bulrush and reed. No orange-blossom or rose or peony famed like the true-earth fragrance come sharp between us when we fall. Page 58 The Bed of Music We lie touching on the bed of music, lost together, although you are in the Midwest and I am in the Northeast, and two phalanxes of weather stage maneuvers between us. I turn to your father who is still asleep having just entered Page 59 the world that bends and extends timehe is forgiven for his routine absences and all he never knew about your mother's tribulations his hand is still bloodied from a cardinal's beak, he nods and smiles in his deep slumber.
On its frame, the quilt spreads, a globe wrapped in Double-Irish Chains, or in gradual shades, light steps down through squares of Tumbling Blocks. Dream of Cathedral Windows, Plaid Mountains, Broken Stars. Playing musical chairs I counter, each chair upholstered in silver brocade, a bit rococo, and to an ornithological Bach cantata programmed into their craniumsor a pack of crow-faced tarot cards guides their shuffled places, randomly assorted by the divining skies. Boundary-marking crows, now moving deeper Page 36 and finally out of sight, heralding the bare-branch season, I want to saycawing, he'd say, and not for any human reason: crows cawing in trees.
An Algebra (Phoenix Poets) by Don Bogen