Susan Rich

Cloud Pharmacy

• Broschiertes Buch

Produktbeschreibung

An exuberant exploration of a life in love and longing alerts us to enlivened possibilities of nostalgia and desire.

Produktdetails

• Verlag: White Pine Press (NY)
• Seitenzahl: 108
• Erscheinungstermin: 11. Februar 2014
• Englisch
• Abmessung: 224mm x 150mm x 8mm
• Gewicht: 159g
• ISBN-13: 9781935210535
• ISBN-10: 193521053X
• Artikelnr.: 39541610

Autorenporträt

Susan Rich is the author of three previous collections of poetry, The Alchemist’s Kitchen, a Finalist for the Foreword Prize and the Washington State Book Award; Cures Include Travel, and The Cartographer’s Tongue / Poems of the World, winner of the PEN USA Award for Poetry. She has received awards from Artist Trust, the Times Literary Supplement Award of London, and the Fulbright Foundation. Together with Brian Turner and Jared Hawkley, she is editor of The Strangest of Theatres: Poets Crossing Borders. Susan’s poems appear in the Antioch Review, Gettysburg Review, New England Review and Triquarterly. She lives and writes in Seattle, WA.

Inhaltsangabe

Clouds, Begin Here It is so hard to say what the dead really want. In the lost fires of the notebook, words stumble down the columns of green and white paper. In the notebook of the unknown index, blank description, we lose our blue hours. Begin with forget shore line, heart line, forgive me serum. If we
re lucky, the mind sits up straight in our interior tree house, our house of sky, the remodeled one car garage. Open the suitcase of ink and erasures; let language spill out in mid-air. Between ferryboat and bicycle, between daybreak and meteor shower we create something holy: apples and crackers and quiet. Invention of Everything Else Once a man offered me his heart like a glass of water how to accept or decline? Sometimes all I speak is doubt delineated by the double lines of railway tracks; sometimes I
m an incomplete bridge, crayon red Xs extending across a world map. A man offers me his bed like an emergency exit, a forklift, a raft. The easy-to-read instructions sequestered in the arms of his leather jacket. Sometimes a woman needs small habits, homegrown salad, good sex. Instead, she cultivates cats and a cupcake maker, attempts enlightenment
prays to leaf skeletons on her deck. The woman and the man say yes
say no, say maybe, perhaps. Neither one know what they will do to the other. Perhaps they
re acorns falling on the roof, a Sunday paper, this all-embracing ocean view. Once a man offered his fortune in drumbeats and song tuned to some interior window; something buried in blue. Cloud Pharmacy How many apothecary drawers could I fill with these deliberations? The pharmacist
s paper cone parsing out a quarter cup of love
s resistant drug, spoons measuring new prescriptions for my uncertainty, heartsway, gesture. Give me cobalt bottles leftover from aunt iskäs cures, albastrons of ointments, resins to resolve the double-helix of desire inside of me. Where is the votive, the vessel, the slide rule calculation
to know how much good love alchemically speaking is good enough? I want spindrift nights on swimmer
s thighs. I want an Egyptian elevator inlaid in camphorwood and ivory; a West African drumbeat, an eggnog, a god. I want waves and summer all year long. I want you. And I want more. Geography IV Of what is the earth
s surface composed?
Elizabeth Bishop, Geography III The world is a little place
a feather, a pebble, a spoon; it turns to the left and taps its foot, a soldier signaling to the rest of its platoon. The world doesn
t know it
s a little world, thinks it
s Greta Garbo in her Paris debut. Watch as the world decorates half moons and cinnamon stars, slips the Sound some islands to improve a stellar view. Tonight the world wishes to sing what it means to miss New Orleans; listens to the drowned hymns of the Tchoupotulas while waiting on help, recompense, a cat with umpteen kittens. Now the globe pulls round again, scattering meaning in gold rings of ramekins; a wizard of chemical breathing. When invited to a soiree by this parched world, down the Pinot Grigio while your inner life implodes knowing nothing is as serene as it seems ~ the past lit with menthol cigarettes; our futures just as unclean. Endless Forms, More Beautiful After a multiple exposure self-portrait of Hannah Maynard, c. 1894 So she keeps her herringbone hands busy with teacups and white flowers and murmurs to no one what she will create. No nephew sawed in half will interest her today, no devoted husband measuring buttes but a suitcase of her own bright follies. The living room pulses on and off with gunpowder expertly fitted for her flash. Or perhaps the room becomes a kind of snowbound mausoleum exhibiting her grief one winter afternoon. (It is quite impossible to know, but let
s presume.) No more inner voices to wake her from sleep, no more fussy wives that arrive with Cornish meat pies and then hurry their bosoms home to living daughters. In the frame, Hannahs stand here, sit there, bend over to brush a bouquet of lilies from other Hannah
s hair (point to center stage). From house left and blocked house right solitary Hannahs float like smoke rings into me. I should have known
her concentric days, the artful dodge, unwavering dark-skyed stare. Recognized my own pathology.