By Connie Voisine
There are a few our bodies that emerge
into wish as a god
rises from the ocean, emotion and
reminiscence cling like dripping clothes—this
wish is like
getting into that heated red
on the mouth of a Delacroix lion,
stalwart, consistently that red
my the teeth soreness and my dermis feel
a hand that hasn't ever touched me,
the tree groaning outdoor becomes
a guy who knocks on my bed room window,
edge of purple on gold fur,
the pony, the wild
flip of its head, the rake of claws
throughout its again, the unfocussed,
Rare excessive Meadow of Which i would Dream is a publication haunted through the afterlife of medieval theology and literature but grounded in rather sleek quandaries of hope. Connie Voisine’s lady audio system reverberate with notes of Marie de France’s tragic heroines, yet while Marie’s poems are locations the place women’s longings speedy bloom and die in captivity—in towers and dungeons—Voisine makes use of narrative to droop the stream of storytelling. For Voisine, poems are events for philosophical wanderings, prolonged lyrics that revolve round the binding and unbinding of hope, with lonely audio system being affected by the impetus of in need of in addition to the need of a love affair’s finish. With fluency, intelligence, and deeply felt emotional acuity, Rare excessive Meadow of Which i would Dream navigates the heady intersection of obsessive love and searing loss.
Praise for Cathedral of the North
“Voisine’s poetry is absolutely unsentimental, tactile, and choked with unforeseen good looks. She is political within the most sensible experience. . . . a stunning, courageous, and unbelievable first book.”—Denise Duhamel, Ploughshares
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Additional info for Rare high meadow of which I might dream
Soon the satisfaction of a chore— that beginning, middle and endness of it—takes over. Wanda puts on one of her records, Carly Simon or Billy Joel and you scrub side by side, announce your achievements or sing along with the music, you’re so vain, I bet you think this song is about you. Finally, you oil the old wood floors, trap yourselves on the square of linoleum in the kitchen. Wanda pulls a couple little green packets from the freezer. The last of it, she sighs, putting a large pot of water to boil.
Boric acid kills roaches and Wanda is diligent in battle; the floors look dusty with it. She arms you with a toothbrush, a nail file, a pastry brush. Soon the satisfaction of a chore— that beginning, middle and endness of it—takes over. Wanda puts on one of her records, Carly Simon or Billy Joel and you scrub side by side, announce your achievements or sing along with the music, you’re so vain, I bet you think this song is about you. Finally, you oil the old wood floors, trap yourselves on the square of linoleum in the kitchen.
We named it suffer— the wheat from fields full of thistles—and birth is what the tearing of one body from another was called. We named it shame, when we made clothes. The voice said, (hear the gate, the end and its wind): 44 • • for dust thou art and unto dust shalt thou return. Why not believe we couldn’t trade a garden for this inscrutable desert, obedience for the infinite variety of pain? Did god really think we wouldn’t step into desire, this bitter after? Please understand the bird who became a man —the thought of her arms and the slick of skin on skin, heavy as milk, that mammal hot in the cry between, understand as she combs her long hair, the idea of her mouth to his ear sometimes takes him back to that shake of feathers, the stagger of flight.
Rare high meadow of which I might dream by Connie Voisine