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Three Poems

Poetry

January 2019

Cole Swensen

Poetry

January 2019

THE KITE C. 1755   One doctor of lightning, floating on his back down a river held his kite high, a sail in the...
1 Modotti, Adrienne Rich I am struck by the line If this is where I must look for you, then this is where I’ll find you I read it several times, scrawl it on a note and stick it to the wall In the seminar that week I mention the poem but no one else has read it, so the burden falls upon me to describe it, explain (unpack, as the tutor creatively says) why it is emotionally striking, and why in particular it was so significant to me Certainly I do not mention that we are, in fact, A It is the week of epitaphs and as the dead rise I am trying to put you to rest To call you a ghost is ungenerous, it is not your fault I am haunted I have been told I can trace your face through mine and so I have sought and found you, every now and again, in the fold of my eyelids, the curl of my lip and the bump of my nose December is the cruellest month, I whisper to my room, gazing at the mirror, fingertip on nose curve I have told no one that we are rapidly approaching the fifth anniversary of your death, or that this week is hell for   anyone who has experienced grief Instead I posit (tutor’s word, not mine) that reading it-self is an act of resurrection Should we abide by the notion that the text is the vi-brant and living space between reader and writer, then of course to read an epitaph, to engage in memorial, is to summon the ghost subject and renew its life Quick note in the corner of my sheet: Write about her We progress through assigned reading, onto Walter Benjamin: The Work of Art in the Age of Mechanical Reproduction We take it at face value initially, discuss our thoughts on art, then eventually begin to apply it to our epitaphs The word aura gains a spectral

Poetry

November 2018

Ways of Reading I

Aea Varfis-van Warmelo

Poetry

November 2018

rapidly approaching the fifth anniversary of your death, or that this week is hell for   this is the...

we collected together all of the scientists and historians & i said okay, how about him he was a murderer – but it’s a photograph sun in his eyes how many decades since he tried it on? we tried it on,   did we? we wouldn’t do it, she said & we took lifts from vans on longwall street, pulled our tights up from the waist, snacked outside libraries – we needed headrushes to break our reading   we salute you from new college’s slippery mound where we climbed to escape the tourists & their guidebooks, laughing at their own hands we salute you & your endeavours noli me tangere, i am flying i am flayed today – there are exams & it is a good rotten apple summer, i think we bit away the shade   i spent so long reading reprinted old books that when i read the new ones you told me about they said oxford’s problem is all the women   who won’t fuck you – i thought that’s interesting baby, did i make you sick? the minstrels strummed & we thumbed back through the pages – margins full of us this one’s about anne boleyn & this one is about wild game the rhyme – it’s so quiet noli me tangere, is it my right to say that? i didn’t like my legs but didn’t know what to wear in case you saw them   & we spent lunches stuck on dead princes’ faces this is not what you’re like you only want to sing about how much you love us anyway
bangable dudes in history

Prize Entry

November 2018

Charlotte Geater

Three Poems

Poetry

November 2018

Gerard Coletta

Poetry

November 2018

Caciocavallo Podolico   I call up the man from Apulia to talk about how cheese is made from the milk of the Podolica cow....

 

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