For this week’s poetry pick, I’ve been reading Lucie Brock-Broido’s new collection, Stay, Illusion.
Post-modern lyric or stream-of-consciousness? These poems focus on the image and offer up a palette for the palate–a banquet made of small, exquisite tastes. One bite leads to the next. Each explodes with flavors. The poems engage me as a reader and even lead me to question my role as a reader. In the interim between each image, the space between each line, I can try to conjure a world, connect the flavors. Or I can allow each sumptuous line to wash over me.
Green as alchemy and even more scarce, little can be known
of the misfortunes of a saint condemned to turn great sorrows
Into greater egrets, ice-bound and irrevocable. The wings were left ajar
How not to keep reading?
Or “Extreme Wisteria“:
On abandon, uncalled for but called forth.
The hydrangea of her crushed each year a little more into the attar of herself.
Pallid. Injured. Wild in ecstasy. A throat to come home to, tupelo.
Perhaps I do these poems an injustice by trying to excerpt them. Better to read them whole. Even though I might be missing the most obvious, as in “For a Clouded Leopard in Another Life” or “In Owl Weather.”
The links I could find give you just a hint; Stay, Illusion, a feast.
It’s been a rich week.