Tourist In Hell (Phoenix Poets)
Eleanor Wilner's poems try to take up the surprise of the wars and atrocities of the 20th and early twenty-first centuries. of their litany of loss, of their outrage and sorrow, they maintain the enjoyment in lifestyles, mercy for the mortal , and compliment for the plenitude of nature and the presents of human artistry.
As together with her six prior collections, those poems are drawn from the transpersonal realm of background and cultural reminiscence, yet they reveal an expanding horror on the bloody repetitions of historical past, its provider of demise, and the damaging savagery of energy separated from intelligence and discretion. The poems describe 'a sordid drama' within which the avid gamers put on 'eyeless masks,' and the single factor time adjustments is the identify of the enemy. beneath all of it, using 'the paintings that' in either senses 'keeps not anything at bay,' swim the big formal energies of lifestyles, the transitive determine that strikes on within the depths, whatever glimpsed within the dawn, whatever enhanced than wish.
"It is a aid to encounter paintings during which an ethical intelligence is matched through aesthetic refinement, within which the craft of the poems is the same as their concerns." - Christian Wiman, Poetry
Sickened hive . . . while the beekeepers arrive to work out to their bees within the spring, the colonies have collapsed, the useless bees tumble out like items from an previous online game, the dried comb crumbles at a slightly, no milk and honey left to spill . . . within the rutted rows of stumps, the olive grove (what have been we thinking?) cut back, the hum, a wind within the ghostly timber, grown louder now— useless bees within the phosphorescent plants tossed in an open tomb. SUCH STUFF AS desires ARE MADE ON “. . . man,.
The eel into the coral cave’s darkish, whereas the reef breaks surf right into a line of lace, the birds are a flourish opposed to the azure flooring of the sky, a brittle dreamscape blue that shatters at a touch—sensing the way it needs to think to be the fish stuck within the claws of the hawk, helplessly gazing the sea recede, to seem down, because the krill needs to, into the black never-ending evening of the whale’s intestine, to feel—as the deer must—the sharp the teeth, rending . . . yet the following, the brain balks, nature starts to.
Swarm of locusts to consume the grain; set species opposed to species, roll the cube, stars collide: time’s murderer, i've got grown bored with conserving your debts, shaping a narrative from the chaos of your caprice, the never-ending invention of your unconcern; I tire of the argument, the rivalry, the test to make a plot out of quicksand and fog, to awaken the wind while becalmed, to convenience the lifeless with a music: ergo I request reassignment, a metamorphosis of vocation, a extra average.
THE exhibit needs to move ON I simply are looking to take into accout the useless piled excessive behind the scenes. —Mahmoud Darwish The play have been staged so long as lets be mindful, a sordid drama during which fact saved altering aspects, the identify of the enemy was once by no means an analogous; occasionally the gamers poured over the sting of the proscenium, spilling into the viewers, who ran terrified from the home that had turn into a scene of bloodbath; occasionally the drama performed at a distance relaxingly distant, stuck and burnished.
Darkness like a wasteland hurricane, who blows like a wind in the course of the Boardrooms, who touches the hills, they usually smoke. “Mission complete” — The Bush/Cheney Years institution dying had tested himself within the purple Room, the White apartment having turn into his common homestead: chalk-white facade, pillars just like the bones of extinct empires, armed males crawling its halls or taking a look down, with suspicion, from its roof; its mammoth luxurious, thick carpets, its plush velvet chairs— all this made.