The Road to Emmaus: Poems
Longlisted for the nationwide ebook Award
A relocating, sophisticated series of narrative poems, from a pointy new poetic voice
Two strangers stroll towards Emmaus. Christ has simply been crucified, and they're heartbroken―until a 3rd guy joins them at the highway and comforts them. when they succeed in Emmaus and holiday bread, the pair realizes they've been jogging with Christ himself. yet within the second they realize him, he disappears. Spencer Reece attracts in this gentle tale in his spell binding collection―one that fearlessly confronts love and its loss, depression and its comfort, and religion in all of its numerous guises.
Reece's valuable determine in The street to Emmaus is a middle-aged guy who turns into a clergyman within the Episcopal Church; those poems stick with him to manhattan urban, to Honduras, to a sanatorium the place he works as a chaplain, to a jail, to an Alcoholics nameless assembly. With language of easy, lyrical attractiveness that gently accrues weight and momentum, Reece spins compelling dramas out of small moments: the speaker, residing between a bunch of orphans, pondering "Was it real, what they stated, priest is a home lit up?"; males discovering one another at a popping out workforce; a guy attempting to come into view after a existence that had relied on no longer being seen.
A longing for connection, an discomfort of loneliness, and the moment of affection disappearing sooner than our eyes hang-out this long-awaited moment assortment from Spencer Reece.
different. As you wrote your poem concerning the jar, my mom went to paintings as a mail lady on the Fuller Brush corporation. As you opened your brain for us, my mom went to go to her father on Mulberry highway. She says: “If you write of my father, do it with respect.” * * * The Connecticut River bounds, gushes, sears the freshets, grays the banks of a garbage-filled birch thicket. The sunlight is a coin rolling around the ice floes. We force prior Wilson, Windsor, Poquonok street. some time past, missionaries.
side road, the hot Republic, The Massachusetts overview, the recent Yorker, Poetry, and Tikkun, the place poems formerly seemed. thankful acknowledgment to Scribner’s for publishing “The street to Emmaus” within the most sensible American Poetry 2012, edited via Mark Doty. Gratitude to the Ucross starting place, The MacDowell Colony, and Richard Blanco for residencies. Gratitude to Bishop Carlos López-Lozano and his spouse, Doña Ana López-Lozano, and the congregation of Catedral del Redentor, who gave me a house in.
to put the polished gemstones down in lengthy eco-friendly felt trays, sheeting them with a placating, measured hush— the way in which one lays orphans all the way down to sleep in an orphanage. In a grand, drafty hallway, the baroness has had her portrait painted and affixed to a wall. The paint has halted her age, softened her intercourse. On her balcony, she will see the slender, dead-end streets embed themselves like bobby pins keeping the escarpments and shrubbery in position like wigs. She has forgotten the couple. within the dark,.
You one of those stranger, your Christ-kiss issuing not more, and the slow withdrawal of your contact had began to take away the clock’s face and arms. A retired couple volunteered, teaching citizens within the tango: the girl had stained white tights, the fellow a tambourine. The tango emoted from the growth field because the citizens accrued in a crescent moon of wheelchairs to make a type of local. Out the sealed home windows, Boston remained muzzled. Dorchester and Brighton a chain of.
Sanctuary. or perhaps he listened to the Reverend Peter Gomes at the radio, the Plummer Professor of Christian Morals at Harvard, for he usually pointed out how he enjoyed the preacher’s parallel structures, certain, perhaps he did that, might be, in all probability he did that. after which, maybe, he slept, sooner than the complete regimen begun once again with help hose, hair spray, omit Littlefield, intercourse magazines, the Grolier, the folding chair, the assembly, the calling card. How loopy the US was once, he stated, how he.