Arsenic Lobster
poetry journal
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Issue Twenty-seven Winter 2011 |
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The Unopened Blossoms Brett Strickland I. The Tenor Bull Soundly bellow, Basil Bunting, though bellows still blow only sound— on your hot forge the hammer strikes sparks off iron chords demarcates shapes of music light on the smithy’s voice, too heavy for flight on its own dark wings. II. The Radio Player Pull the lemon from the song Jack Spicer, rich enough to run fluid juice down clenching palm— though the marriage of each psalm to a blooded lover we can touch still pumps no blood into song. The palm still grasps at empty air throat parched for a drink from lemons that were never there. III. The Mechanic Grease each machine, Billy Williams, mechanical motions masking that each nut and bolt belongs to an elaborate set. Neither screw nor tire will turn. Backstage the backdrop of a house with white curtains and flowers painted on the sill, forever to remain undisturbed. Your beautiful firetruck dulls in the fog. Genius caught in the mirror, your wheelbarrow rusts in the rain. IV. The Unopened Blossoms I’ve been pulling at the threads of psalms and wondering what resonance comes from the most primal symbols of need stripped of music. Yes, thirst but what of thirst, what of hunger without strings, without the slap of palms against stretched leather? Hunger and thirst alone are not music. A white blossom hangs from a tree right before your eyes—reach out and touch the weight dragging down the slender stem and forgive me. I’ve been flying these words so close to this barrier of sound, yet not one will burst into song. |
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About Brett Strickland |