Download An Algebra (Phoenix Poets) by Don Bogen PDF
By Don Bogen
An Algebra is an interwoven choice of 8 sequences and 16 person poems, the place photographs and words recur in new contexts, connecting and postponing strategies, feelings and insights. by way of turns, the poems bounce from the general public realm of city decay and outsourcing to the intimacies of kin lifestyles, from a road mime to a haunting dream, from elegy to lyric evocation. Wholeness and brokenness intertwine within the e-book; glimpsed styles and startling disjunctions force its explorations.
An Algebra is a piece of adjusting equivalents, a look for stability in a global of transformation and loss. it's a brilliantly developed, relocating publication via a poet who has accomplished a brand new point of inventive expression and talent.
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Additional resources for An Algebra (Phoenix Poets)
19 The Book of Matthew 1. She is painting the tree line again and again. In this, her insides are scoured, she is able, after days inside, to leave the studio, trade turpentine for pine, for fenceposts. All I want is to not stop walking until I encounter a county where what’s between houses isn’t alley. This sorrow has crept inside me like a spider into my bed, like iris pollen sashaying downstream, so fancy. The child outside my door is not my child, just some random child explaining the swimming pool.
Go figure. Make of her peril a figure, make a figurine, she will build a diorama with stripped wires 34 hanging from empire chairs. Darling an explosion is not the same as a meltdown says the city. Tsk go the Furies. By the deli, a woman sits on the grass with a kitten on a string. A crop of men and arms. A crop of alley glass! A crop of bug husks. I think this is meant for small song. How a car door is like a shield. How an alarm is like a bird: it circles, moving out from its host then back again.
I ain’t never had one walk right up to me, shake my hand— 26 Felted air, power lines down— no dial tone One interesting expression is Nothing’s there. I’ve quite the harem, ladies: there’s the angel of silence, and then there’s the body I love best, who resides on the other side of several mountain ranges. Bestial weather and the dog chained up palm-sized book burning in the oil drum burning the anodyne spells Propped up on my elbow, storm ghosting the trees, this is what I say to the angel of silence: anodyne, poppy mine, the years a canyon without looking down, the needlework-elaborate pattern storm-shifted, fragrant as juniper: there the household boxed and sold, day a hinge I oiled and oiled.