THERMOS

THERMOS 6: Julie Carr

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From our spring 2011 issue, some poems from Julie Carr, one of my very favorite contemporary poets. These ones aren’t in a book you can buy yet, but you can buy her other books here, and should. — AS





from Think Tank





& I’m an O without a figure




no fool but an egg




with yolk eaten out




by he who swaps




the kiss of god




for a speaking tongue




at night’s noon. Blank




went the candle






*






A part of a whole, apart from a hole, is the pit of the soul,




the apex of soil. From you I might hang




babies, babies, babies





A mother’s gorges: her cheeks and her hair. Her hallowed






*






A man walks into a party




because poetry is a semiotic fortress




My sex is so quiet, it needs no song




At the Saturday playground:




O conscience, you florid surge




And poetry is an alphabet of hunger




The beast takes its pleasure, but what is pleasure?




Shoulders of the sick:




on the right and left






*






Ponderer:




Joyousness fled and sex fled: something had to restore these things




Civic volunteer plum trees,




like grieving orphans, defended nothing




“One has a secret self, a rather delicate pondering inner person




Much of poetry exists to communicate with this entity”





“Life is a plot to make me move”






*






I must effort to remember this




girl-baby on her back




Wind up and the water grew hotter. Her visage more




or less fair, fairly sound, sweetly fair




Where is my fool? I think the world asleep




In my mother’s mossy little mirror




the freedoms of fire




vaporized. We’ve altogether




forgotten her




Is this, then, the place?






*






One to two to one to two to one to two to one




goes regeneration’s




math. There, the door opens for: sun, road, behold




five–a perfect gaggle of kids




Apples, potatoes, pigs, and birds. Bread, milk, sugar, and eggs:




Feed my kids. The cow feeds my kids. The truck. The flame feeds




my kids. The bag feeds my kids. Plum and butter and nut and hen:




nothing so kind as a warehouse






*






& the windowpanes rattle in the bad news/good news format,




a way of displacing or troubling the triumphal narrative of the emergence of a rational-critical sphere



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