By Michele Glazer
Michele Glazer’s poems tackle questions of being and price, exploring not only what is, yet how it truly is. The poems difficulty borders—between self and different, young and old, in poor health and good, stranger and intimate; among actual states in methods of degradation; and among line and word, sentence and interruption, prose and poem, resisting the need for whatever irrefutable with an abiding skepticism.
The poems are attracted to missteps in conception and in language, these fractures that promise to crack open a floor to yield another, better meaning: “What is checked out is modified / what's sought for is gone.” From this collision of ardour and severity come poems which are unusual and darkly beautiful.
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Additional resources for On tact, & the made up world
Lifts one switching wing and turns its head back to pick at whatsoever buried itself there even in the beginning, perhaps because we are not so young and have imparted our own space— small part of what keeps me here, still how your whole self weeping once, shook with 46 She would have to do what she could do with it The caviar’s pitched like a Midwest haystack but black. It is the dean’s house. The soup was delicious, feint of lemon and scallops. But the meat is incomprehensible and swags off the plate on either side like the holiday wreath on a white door, that red, and embellished with mint.
To a hole in the sky wide enough to see through. Let’s sew this up, says the chairman. To the matter at hand and the handle he has on it. To the hand he has in it. And to the secretary, writing it down, taking the minutes. The chair sits. His face flushes like a sun gathering color before the sky’s won over and the dark takes hold. Then moistens. The chair loosens his tie. To the consummate still life: the conference table and the water glasses sweating and the coat tossed over the back of the chair.
Now turn where, to what? And how does a candle burned low make the go-round move. 30 Beds of Clandestine 1 Justin sleeps with a stuffed malaria parasite in his arms. Walks on the bent-tops of his toes so it makes mine hurt. Loses his arrow in a spring-leafed maple that hoarded the arrow that he wanted back. Look for it he said to me when the leaves fall off. Mine to find the half-hidden and I went back for it. I looked. 2 He breaks the pieces where they’re scored—stacks them in his palm—places them on his tongue rapidly one and one like laying tile before the glue dries.
On tact, & the made up world by Michele Glazer