And (Princeton Princeton Series of Contemporary Poets) by Debora Greger

By Debora Greger

From the name poem:

Ampersand

pink as useless shrimp, the unborn curls in its tide pool--seed pearl

whose mom lusters over irritant love it's too overdue to dislodge;

little anemone, shrinking from contact. So and holds separate what it such a lot heavily binds.

Review:

"Ms. Greger's poems occur on the element of stumble upon among the brain and the realm of topic. . . . And it's the resistance of the genuine and the expanding urgency the poet feels in attempting to extinguish her solitude . . . that make those poems emotional."--The long island instances ebook Review

Originally released in 1985.

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Extra info for And (Princeton Princeton Series of Contemporary Poets) (Princeton Legacy Library)

Sample text

Beneath an entrance ramp to nothing but unetched lanes of sky, a skater cuts between cars through shadow's pilings. To dodge, to touch—feather breaking air bubbles so acid can bite, or ribbon of shade tying hands apart—without irony, on love's lasting, optimistic as this city where what's built wrong goes down to earthquake, mudslide, wrecking ball before age has its chance. Full sleeves tied back, as he etched with the needle what he remembered, reversed, he spoke to the plate the anthology of decay.

That branch I ducked, spar swinging to cuff or bolster, my father bending over me, demonstrative as the blanket, the blank sky. On a conducting tour, Mendelssohn was approached by a minor official, once a composer himself, who asked if the orchestra could play something by his father. Mendelssohn asked his name. "Mozart," the official replied. 3 Leaves of ice broaden on the lily pond until a dog can run a tufted duck across it. Wind's shakedown rattles the beds and sour kumquats surrendered scatter from trees splayed against the wall for warmth.

A clearing wedged between stumps too massive to be moved, even by tears— pedestals without statues, planted in a formal garden, they stand on the rudeness close quarters demand, discreet, turned half away. In a room mostly bed, a sculptor pays a woman enough that she'll let him run his hands over her roughened feet, then kiss an eyebrow to trace the bone's socket beneath. The notes she snugs under a garter, where they dig a little in the limp marble of flesh, after she's counted that all she's due is there.

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