Tourist In Hell (Phoenix Poets)

By Eleanor Wilner

Eleanor Wilner's poems try and take in the surprise of the wars and atrocities of the 20 th and early twenty-first centuries. of their litany of loss, of their outrage and sorrow, they preserve the enjoyment in existence, mercy for the mortal , and compliment for the plenitude of nature and the presents of human artistry.

As together with her six previous collections, those poems are drawn from the transpersonal realm of background and cultural reminiscence, yet they exhibit an expanding horror on the bloody repetitions of historical past, its carrier of loss of life, and the harmful savagery of energy separated from intelligence and reticence. The poems describe 'a sordid drama' during which the gamers put on 'eyeless masks,' and the one factor time alterations is the identify of the enemy. beneath all of it, using 'the paintings that' in either senses 'keeps not anything at bay,' swim the large formal energies of lifestyles, the transitive determine that strikes on within the depths, anything glimpsed within the dawn, anything greater than desire.

"It is a reduction to encounter paintings within which an ethical intelligence is matched by means of aesthetic refinement, during which the craft of the poems is the same as their concerns." - Christian Wiman, Poetry

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And what it crosses, it negates; it crosses out. just like the anti-matter of the universe, with all of matter’s homes reversed: whilst it meets a particle of topic, the pair annihilate one another— of their position: natural power, radiant mild, as though destruction have been divine. no longer so! For symmetry is damaged from the beginning, from which all issues descend, and the following we're. while the universe began—Creation as gigantic Bang—for purposes technology can no longer clarify, the stability tipped towards subject: extra used to be made from subject than of its absent anti-matter dual. ideal symmetry may have intended natural annihilation, that nothingness of which either Indian saint and French truth seeker dream, beautiful binary computer— Being and Nothingness: ka-boom. And understanding that, the idea, excellent, which those strains before everything unearthed, dissolves, a cloud that had obscured the solar: the sea waves proceed as ahead of, include with foam the swimmer on her board (each bubble a lens to capture the light), the mountain rises from the ocean’s flooring, and out in area, the galaxies spin on, the celebrities wink again at every little thing: root, plant, orangutan, blue planet, rutabaga, kitchen sink. TO imagine WHAT we'd HAVE . . . Today—Pompeii, on view: the last word interruption, permission guilty nature for the failure to complete anything—to bake the bread, to place the children to mattress on time, stitch the tattered toga, ice the wine, draw up your will, take the swill out again to feed the pigs, perform a little small kindness to the bad, write your senator (you pay attention that Rome’s long past rotten, and your taxes may be used for but one other warfare) . . . yet by no means brain, while the smoke and ash rain down, the mountain extending its large area, the lava pouring in via each door, evening vacationing via day— a last, sturdy truth, the darkness remaining down at the Poet’s apartment, her puppy, and cave canem in mosaic tile at the ground; that poem usually are not written she had deliberate, the only whose traces, so based, while scanned, might make the effective Virgil weep with disgrace; the poem of 1,000 strains that might be sung for 1,000 years—begun simply then, observe one, it promised to make effusive springs holiday forth from stone, and warlike hearts repent their hardened methods, and negative nostalgic Orpheus lay down his lyre for sturdy (and hold his head): this could have come to pass—but for Vesuvius, a jealous nature pouring its scorching wrath on all her drafts, whereas filling up the beds, the long run, with its livid furnace breath—ah, such a memorable excuse, catastrophic demise— yet hiya, the journey is tiresome, the day is chilly; on the town there are a dozen retailers showing skeletons of bats, the Tears of Christ, and Davids, Davids by means of the gross, effigies on the market at any expense. 4 apartments, GETTING darkish quickly, not anything TO DO yet stroll for Bob Zieff’s “Sad stroll” stroll it: the lengthy corridor of the horn, passage of amber, trumpet of honey, candy, unbearably unhappy. stroll it: the bridge over waters, deep grievance of the bass, wind making the fellow wires hum.

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