Posts Tagged ‘poems’

THERMOS 6: Julie Carr

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



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

THERMOS 4: Tyler Meier

Tyler Meier once saved a fruit tree by hitching it to his entire house. — ZS


Something like the inside of a matchtip;
so that all recognition is out on blocks
in the yard, so that one might try to use a box of lake water
as a copy machine. There is a future
that presupposes hickory
as a birthright, and to have that idea
drop like a sack full of pig iron
into the deep end of your forehead.
There is a way of being
in the world that is the world,
a way of being
the fish scale that keeps the ocean
out of the fish, and to behave that way


A plural forming in the absence of light

The way an anchor looks, falling through a sink

Then a woman smashing her face in a fistful of flowers

A moth like an aspirin

A permanence swaddled in walnuts

Leaves going back up into the trees

After, a space between things

A collarbone swimming into a shoulder

Light forming like a forest of mistletoe

Then a plague of violets

If by metaphor, you make a thing


How the cardinal looked like a coin toss,
then cornfield after cornfield aching
in the want posture, in the horizon
we erase from. Tragedy
always begins in the doorway,
and still we insist on doors, she said.
There are times I follow the car
in front of me very closely
because I don’t want to be alone.
I can swear the word for this.
Minor note of highway, eyes
the color of a wheat field going under.

In one picture, the man is trying to put
the apocalypse on his body, or give you
the key to his heart.
This is an impossible man.
Who wants to play the apocalypse?
Who wants to be his heart?


The things you cut in half and end up with twice as much. One way I tell you that I love you is in future perfect metaphors. I wish you were a refillable coffee mug. I realized that in the hug position one never looks at the face of the person they are hugging, rather at the world the person you are holding just walked through to touch you. No response is appropriate for that distance. I wish you were a lobster pot. Out of frustration I made a bumper sticker that said I will kiss you with my Iscariot mouth. A little competition never hurt anybody. Soon, there weren’t enough bumpers in my life. The night that came was a deep flower, and the stars were bees. We sang the ancient song. Then the salt ignited.